Look At Me
by kashicanhaz
Summary: modern!AU. While completing his 12 Steps, Sandor receives a picture of a girl who looks familiar, a girl who could never meet his eye. Running from those who would have her as an accessory to murder, Sansa must completely change her identity when she leaves LA for rural Montana, unsure of who to trust, unsure if she is safe. TW: emotional abuse. Cover art by cabout on tumblr.
1. Chapter 1

Sandor had been under the impression that overdosing was supposed to feel_ bad_.

He'd watched people overdose and die before—they always looked like they were in pain, fitting and seizing and choking on their own vomit. He had hoped the wolf-bitch would spare him the indignity of it, as he felt sure this time he had gone too far, done too much, that this shit would kill him if she didn't kill him first. It would have been a mercy, he'd thought, barking for his gun back, asking for help aiming it at his heart. She hadn't complied though, even after he tried provoking her, telling truths about her friend and lies about her sister.

(He never would have raped her, never could have brought himself to do such a thing, even high out of his mind. It wasn't her body he wanted—not first and foremost, anyway. All he wanted was for her to _look_ at him..._How hard would that have been, little bird?_)

But the bitch had fled, leaving him in his black Caddy pulled up along the banks of the Trident River to die on his own. He had closed his eyes and willed himself to sleep, hoping to get it over with.

Instead, he dreamt.

It was a dream, he knew, because he could see clearly out of both eyes—no hazy glare over the one, cut off by a drooping, melted brow. In his dreams, he was whole. In his dreams, she could look at him.

The sun was impossibly bright, the sky clear, the weather fair. He was moving fast, gliding over pipe and concrete, dipping into bowls and _flying_, tapping his fingers to the edge of his skateboard just to make sure it was still there when he went twisting into the air. He heard a squeal and he threw his hips towards it, jerking his board so that it sailed towards her, perched and watching on her little bench. She was exactly as she'd been when he'd first seen her—flared skirt and basic v-neck tee, her coppery hair alight on the wind, a bright smile on her face. A smile that she _meant_.

She reached out to him as he skated towards her and she took his hands. "Show me how you did that trick," she urged, pushing him back towards the ramp he'd just twirled off, giggling impossibly for him.

"Which one?" he asked, kicking his board up into his hands, catching it in all his imagined smooth operation. He had never skated well—always been too big for it—but he'd always _wished_ he could skate. Guys on skateboards always got the girl's attention.

"The one that made me scream," she said.

"How 'bout one that makes you laugh?" he asked, digging his fingers deftly into her waist where she was most ticklish. She shrieked, waiting for him to laugh before she laughed with him, throwing her arms around his neck and giving him a long, sweet, impossible kiss.

"If you show me how you do it, I promise that I'll run away with you," she whispered.

_I'll run away with you_. Words he'd hoped to hear in another situation, in another reality, darker and truer than this. The whole shipyard had been on fire (it was the most terrifying thing he'd ever seen) and he had offered to take her away from it, from them, from _everything_, but she never let him get that far. He knew from the look in her eyes she wouldn't go. He didn't even have the balls to ask.

But that reality was elsewhere. Here he had her in his arms, dancing with him senselessly in the bright afternoon sun. He spun her until they were both dizzy, kissed her cheeks and her hair, held her just to hold her, because here, she was his. And _God_ her smile was bright, so bright her whole affect seemed to glow, the light she gave off whiter and brighter than the California sun above them. It was a celestial moment. Heavenly.

_Why are you so far away? Why won't you ever know that I'm in love with you?_ His thoughts cut through, slicing up the illusion of the dream into ribbons until it started to slip, her memory twisting into images of angels dancing on ocean waves, twirling on point like a ballerina, before she morphed into a bird and flew straight into the sun, unlike Icarus, her wings holding up beneath its heat.

It was the daylight that woke him, pulled him back into his car, packed him tight back into the dark reality he hated calling home. Her name rang on the air in the voice of a broken, dying man. _That's my voice_, he passively noticed, _my lips are moving._

"Sansa," the world seemed to say with him.

He was shaking violently and covered in sweat, his stomach cramping and his limbs aching to the bone. The vomit staining his shirt was long dried and his heart beneath it was thrumming like the beat to a bad pop song. _How long was I asleep?_ He wondered, closing his eyes, willing himself to fall back under, let his dreams be his escort out of this world, if only he could.

But there she was, her image cut into the backs of his eyes, arms crossed and jaw set, a look that might have been strong if not for the paralyzing fear in her look that made her beauty all the more terrible and heartbreaking. _Fear of you, dog, _he told himself, unable to show himself kindness even in his final hours. He had spent enough time facing Reality in all of her cruelty—why could he not, with his last brainwaves, let himself savour another truth? One where Sansa Stark was alive and in love _with him? _With all his strength he distracted himself from the pain of his death and recalled her form, toes curled on the waves of the Pacific like the supernatural force she was.

But then she slipped, her white body and red hair sliding down, down, down into the water. He willed her to fight but she did not. He begged her to breathe but she did not. She disappeared into the ocean as he had disappeared into the night, the fires and her fate at his back.

_I drowned her,_ he thought, the notion horrifically familiar. Momentarily he fought the onslaught, the rage and self-loathing and regret that drove him to his booze and his pills in the first place (not in the _very first_ place, but in _this_ first place)—fought to keep her his, to keep his delusions, his fantasies, his last moments in someplace like heaven before his deeds anchored his soul down in hell, but had not strength for the fight.

And so it was with a heart full of regret that the Hound in Sandor Clegane met his end.

* * *

**NOTES**: This ficlet is based off the song "Just Like Heaven" by The Cure—overwhelmingly so. I adapted much of the lyrics and imagery of the song to my content, which is based on George R.R. Martin's _A Song of Ice and Fire _series.

It is part of a series of modern!AU song-based ficlets that should morph into a proper Fanfiction in time.

(Should you guys want more, that is. Leave your wants in the review box.)

Love!


	2. Chapter 2

"All That I've Got" & "On My Own" –The Used

**TW: Mentions of past abuse. Explanation in the A/N at the end.**

She could laugh all she wanted; inside, she still felt _empty._

She was laughing now, laughing at herself, at any doubt she may have had that she was being watched. Mrs. Cersei Lannister-Baratheon _personally _saw to it that she was never left alone, even now, as she dutifully applied her makeup (and delicately—there were yellowed bruises abloom on her shoulders that _looked_ nearly healed, but were in fact _not_) in the company of Joffrey's Bride-to-be and all her Bridesmaids. She kept her head down, huddled close to her modest vanity mirror in a corner away from them, trying to put the colour back in her cheeks in dips and dabs and fussing with her dress, a strapless light pink Ralph Lauren, which might have made her feel beautiful if not for her company: girls with easy smiles and rosy, bruise-free complexions, every one of them in custom Versace. Once upon a time (_before_, she thought) she might have been jealous of Margaery Tyrell—marrying the man Sansa had herself been engaged two no less than eight months past, with all the glitz and glamour she had dreamt of her wedding possessing ever since she was a little girl. But she had gained perspective since then.

(Taupe patent-leather heels, her father's red gore beading on the toes. Long white fingers clutching a handkerchief too tightly, dabbing, swiping, beating, but naught can out the stain. _Perspective._)

A couple swipes of blush over her forehead, nose and chin. Sansa was too fair-skinned to use bronzer even in the summer months, when her skin did not turn the same honey-gold the rest of the girls seemed to manage, but bright pink and red, like perpetual embarrassment. She turned her attention to her hair—it was holding its curl well, not frizzing up as she had feared it might—and tucked a finely-wrought black amethyst comb into her auburn tresses, piled up behind her temples. The comb was a gift from her husband, Tyrion Lannister, who had been all but forced upon her once her engagement with his nephew had ended. It was _imperative,_ she had been told, for the fortune of her family's company, that she marry into the Lannister line so that, after what had happened to the rest of her family, she would still have access to her inheritance once she turned twenty-five.

She doubted she would see the money, but it seemed a small price for her life.

As it happened, her father turned out to only be the first Stark to leave her behind in the living world. Brandon and Ricky had been next, kidnapped and killed by her foster brother Theo Greyjoy, whom her father had graciously taken into his house after Theo's father was put in prison for fraud and embezzlement from Baratheon Power Solutions, Casterly Mining Corporation and Winterfell Logging Company, among others. Sansa had felt a sinking in her stomach (though she had thought by then it could sink no lower) when Joffrey had ordered her brought to his room in his family's penthouse that afternoon, six months into their engagement and three weeks after her father's murder.

When the Lannister-Baratheons merged their two companies (and families, as it happened) twenty-three years before, they had bought the top seven floors of the Red Keep building, with views overlooking the Blackwater shipping yard, where most of their revenue came and went; at the time, Sansa had been housed on their bottom floor, in the Hand's Suite overlooking the water, and Joffrey had demanded that she forgo the elevator and march up all seven flights of stairs to his room, where he kept her standing as he turned on CNN (it was headline news, after all: _Heir to Pyke Shipping Company snaps; kills two youngest Stark heirs_) and laughed as she tried to keep her knees under her, her whole body buckling in her grief. When she finally _did _crumple to the floor, he had her pulled up by her hair and struck seven times _hard _across her waist, his thug Trant dealing the blows while Blount held her still. But that was before she learned how to take a beating—it wasn't long before she learned to keep still on her own.

Two months later, she had been expecting Joff to accompany her to her uncle Ed's wedding at a resort in Jackson Hole, but at the last minute Mrs. Lannister-Baratheon prevented them from going. Sansa had been gravely disappointed, all her hope withering in that moment as though it had never thrived, but she had kept her expression neutral—it was all she could do to put on a pleasant facade every morning for her captors, trying to keep Joff as happy as possible to stave off the beatings, and she had so looked forward to seeing her mother and brother, hoping to find a moment to plead with them to help remove her from this engagement, no matter how important for the company it may have been.

They would not have been available to hear her pleas, regardless: a wealthy stockholder in Winterfell Logging by the name of Walter Frey had turned up at the wedding with a rifle, targeting her mother, her brother (CEO of Winterfell Logging after her father's murder) and other prominent figures and family friends from the Boston circle like John Umber Jr. and Miss Dacey Mormont, racking up a total of 27 dead, 18 wounded.

It cut her so deeply she didn't even bleed.

"That's just adding insult to injury. _Literally_," Joff's man Clegane had scoffed while walking her back to her suite the afternoon it became apparent that the Lannisters were providing Frey's legal aide, letting her put most of her weight on his arm as the hurt took everything out of her, keeping his voice low as the elevator doors shut before them. He was a fearsome one, Clegane—originally she had thought him the worst of all Joff's thugs, between his sheer size, sour attitude, and horrible, ugly burns on the right side of his face. He had earned himself the nickname of "the Hound" for his ruthlessness, which had only inspired more fear in her. It was not long after Joffrey began having her beaten, though, that she came to see that the Hound at least treated her like a human being. Sure, he was crass, rude and mean, but there was a tiny part of him that gave her sympathy; it was as good as table scraps to a hungry stray.

It was all that she got.

She heard disgust in his voice, but did not react to it, did not rush to it like she wanted to. _It's probably a trap, _she thought to herself as he glanced over at her to gauge her reaction, though he _almost_ sounded genuine as he added in a snarl, "If I were you, I wouldn't put up with this shit."

It was a long moment before she spoke, her knees still wobbly and her footing unsure, the elevator _ping_ing as it reached their destined floor. "You sound as though I've got a choice in the matter."

"You've _always_ got a choice," he insisted, patronizing.

"Not me. Not in this."

"Stupid little bird. You're just choosing to be powerless."

Sansa gripped his arm tighter in response—she couldn't argue with that one. She had backed herself into this corner, started this avalanche after all.

_Oh, how the world inverts itself._

She had done it as a demonstration of loyalty to her future family. To the wealth of their companies. A token of faith to her fiancée. She thought she was doing the _right_ thing.

(_Stupid little bird,_ Clegane might have said, had he been privy to her thoughts and present for commentary.)

Father was going to dissolve the merger. Sever Winterfell Logging Company from Baratheon Power Solutions permanently. And how ever could she marry her beloved Joffrey after all that? Worried over the fate of her love, she went to his mother, told her everything she remembered about father's plans. Cersei had called her 'little dove,' and said what a good daughter-in-law she was going to be. Sansa had returned to her suite relieved.

But it was not a day later that Joffrey found out, brought her out to an abandoned Baelor Industries shipping warehouse, and made her watch while his man, the mute Ilyn Payne, pushed her father to his knees, put a long-barrelled pistol to the back of his head, and shot him.

The echo still haunted her, sometimes.

"_I really don't want anything to come between me and Joffrey. You know how I love him," she had said._

"_I know, little dove. And you have my word—we will deal with this unpleasant situation delicately." Cersei had smiled while she spoke. Smiled._

Before she could scream, Sansa fainted.

Her sister Arya had fled that night, leaving her well and truly alone in Los Angeles with the Lannister-Baratheons, which had, up until that night, been the only thing she had wanted. _I thought when I got here I'd be on top of the world, but look around. Everything's missing. What did I know?_

And the girls in the green Versace behind her, tittering and giggling, or the bride in the blinding white, sipping champagne—what did they know of the world they were slipping into? What did she know of the monster she'd find waiting in her bed?

_Maybe she thinks she's safe because of her brother,_ Sansa mused. Loras Tyrell, youngest son of Senator Mace Tyrell (who was rumoured to run for the Republican nomination for president in the next election circuit, she heard) was a media darling like Sansa herself, and also a renowned featherweight boxer. She'd seen him fight once, against Greg "The Mountain" Clegane, (the Hound's brother,) a boxing match Joffrey and his late father Robert had organized in celebration of Winterfell Logging Company's merger with Baratheon Power Solutions and Casterly Mining Corporation, and while Loras had fought well and won the match, he was not the type of fighter who could threaten Joff. Not with Trant, Blount, and the younger Clegane at his side. _She seems so calm. It's like she doesn't even know._

Margaery had asked Sansa, though, what kind of a man Joffrey was. Plain as day she had asked her, in near as many words. Margaery and her grandmother Olenna had asked her to lunch with them at a little cafe in the city that Sansa had never heard of, and when she arrived with the other ladies, she realized why—the place, while clean, was nearly empty, most likely due to the obscene rap music being played at deafening levels inside.

"So we won't be overheard," Margaery had shouted in her ear.

So Sansa had told them everything.

And the sympathy they had feigned for her had been very convincing—Mrs. Tyrell had seemed truly appalled at the things Joffrey had subjected to her to, before and after she loved him, in the span of their nine-month engagement. It had not been enough to convince Margaery, apparently, as here she sat, sponging pearly eyeshadow onto her eyelids for the sake of the girl's nuptials with the monster Sansa knew so well. It would have made her sick, if anything could so affect her anymore. These days, all Sansa felt was a need to climb back into bed, pull the duvet over her face, and keep on sleeping. Depression, some might call it, but it didn't feel like depression to her. It felt like _nothing._

After tonight, though, it would all be over. After tonight, Sansa Stark would be free. The only thing standing between the vanity mirror before her and putting Los Angeles at her back was a wedding reception.

Of all things.

"Don't forget to wear that comb your husband gave you," had slurred Don Hollard, her saviour, the man aiding her escape. "If you wear that comb, I can promise you'll have cover while you run to meet me."

She slipped a pin into its teeth just to be safe.

Sitting at the head table, she couldn't sit still. Poking at her food with her fork, appetite absent as it had been for months, twirling her fingers through her hair. Every so often she would brush the little comb with a fingertip, making sure it was still there, a reminder of what was to come. The wait was maddening.

"Sansa, honey, you've hardly touched your food," Tyrion said, his concern more like that of a favourite teacher than a lover or husband. She simpered, muttering some excuse, broke off a flake of the fish and brought it carefully to her mouth. It tasted like cold sand.

Mrs. Tyrell showed up then, shuffling with her cane and all her dignity around the head table, starting at their far end.

"My Sansa. You look exquisite, child" she cooed, her languid Louisiana drawl coming through elegantly. "Looks like that dreadful wind has been at your hair, though; here," she said gently reaching with her gnarled, arthritic fingers to tuck her comb deeper into her hair, spurring Sansa to leap back defensively before relaxing. "I was so very sorry to hear about your losses," the woman continued, still prodding at the comb, "it's a downright shame, killin' at a wedding. Why, men are apprehensive enough about the affairs without people goin' around and _killin'_ at them. There, much better. Gets your hair out of that pretty face of yours."

"Thank you for fixing my hair, Mrs. Tyrell," she said meekly, reflexively.

"Not a problem, dear. And how are you this evening, Mister Tyrion?" she continued, passing Sansa to pat her little husband on the shoulder.

"Just fine, Miss Olenna. You're looking radiant as ever," he observed, overgallant.

"Ah, you spoil me!" she laughed, smacking him on the shoulder before shuffling onward, towards the rest of her granddaughter's wedding party.

Sansa went back to picking at her food.

The reception pressed onwards, Sansa watching with dread as the groom got progressively more drunk, knowing from experience what that would mean for her and everyone around her. Sure enough, it did not take long for Joff to stand up and charge at his uncle, probably for saying something Sansa had not heard, and threw his wine, glass and all, in her husband's face. She flinched as some of it splashed onto the hem of her skirt and thighs, looking so like thin magenta blood. Belatedly, she wished she had been paying attention. She might have enjoyed whatever joke her husband had cracked that had angered Joffrey so, because despite the farcical nature of their marriage, she still felt as though she should _like_ her husband. Guilt haunted her that she did not. As she shifted her knees to dab the wine from her legs, her foot nudged the oversized black purse at her feet, and her thoughts turned darker still as she remembered why it was there, and the man who had given it to her.

"_Wait for your cover. You'll know it when you see it," Hollard said, brushing a piece of her hair behind her ear clumsily, botching the gesture of tenderness as he usually did. She braced herself for what came next. He licked his lips. "Now give your saviour a kiss, girl."_ _And she had, letting him slip his tongue into her mouth, his hand up her skirt. It would not do to deny him anything, and Joffrey had taken any virtue she had long ago._

Sansa focused on the relief flooding through her that, at any minute, the reception would erupt into chaos and she would grab the bag at her feet, take off running for one of the bathrooms, change into the black leggings and cotton long sleeve shirt she had rolled up tight in there, and _run_ to meet Don by the rosebushes outside the Napa Valley resort. From there, she knew not what was in store for her—he had kept her out of the loop "for her safety;" Sansa could not help wondering whether or not she trusted him, forcing herself to think that yes, in fact, she did, if only because she did not want to consider how things would be if she did not, or if she was being misled.

_I saved him, though, _she reminded herself, thinking back to the boxing match on Joff's 21st birthday, where Don Hollard had been drinking before his match and had missed his dramatic entrance. Joffrey was furious, ordered his bodyguards to hold him down and funnel wine into the man's stomach until..._until..._(thinking of her father, those lifeless gray eyes)_..._and Sansa was so afraid for him, as she watched his eyes bug out of his face in horror while someone forced him to his knees, stuck a funnel in his mouth. She hadn't even heard herself cry out. "Stop! You can't!"

But then she'd turned Joffrey's rage on her. She remembered reeling, trying to come up with something to say in defense of herself before she met the same fate that the boxer had nearly met. It was not her voice that rasped in her salvation, though. It was Clegane's.

"She's right," he said like a cough. "What a man sows on his birthday, he reaps for the whole year."

Joffrey wheeled on him, scoffing but quieting himself. Sansa had noticed how he heeded the Hound, like an older brother, almost. "What's that, _Shakespeare?_" he cried, laughing. "I didn't know you could _read_, Hound."

"Don't be an idiot. Of course I can read."

Joffrey sputtered. The Hound was the only person he let speak to him as such, but even still, Clegane rarely did. "I didn't know you _read_, then."

"Went to high school same as anyone. Didn't feel like flunking English senior year."

The Hound's interjection stalled his temper long enough for Don Hollard to get away, and it was not long before she found a mysterious text on her phone from a number she didn't recognize.

_Meet me in the chapel if you want to go home. Delete this message._

He didn't ask her for kisses in return right away; it was _weeks_ before he made his way to second base. After that, though..._eyes on the prize,_ she would repeat like a chant as she shamed herself, over and over again in _gratitude._ She tried not to be disgusted with herself—rarely did it work.

By then, everyone was expected to have finished their main course, and the happy couple made their way to the seven-tiered wedding cake, finished with elaborate gold floral-motif piping, white glitter and edible pearls. She helped her little husband out of his chair and held his hand as he led her over to gather around the couple and queue up for the cake. Joff and Margaery made quite a show of brandishing the cake knife together, feeding each other delicate little nibbles off the knife.

"Our wedding cake was a hundred times prettier, wasn't it, Sansa?" Tyrion said ironically, patting her hand. She met his eyes and gave him the strongest smile she could manage, which was still pretty weak. But from the way his mouth was bunched into a crooked smile as he continued patting her hand, she could tell he wished for things to be different. Same as she did.

"_I could be...I could be good to you,"_ he had said on their wedding night, as his hand had found her breast and she had shuddered involuntarily. _I should be able to handle this,_ she chided herself as her body quaked beneath his touch. _Come on Sansa. You've had worse. _But thinking about Joff or Don didn't make her feel _better_, not even a little. She bit her tongue and willed her body back into control, and this time, as he caressed the curve of her waist modestly, she felt nothing at all. It was an improvement.

_Look at him, _Sansa told herself, _look at your husband, at all of him, Miss Mordane said all men are beautiful, find his beauty, try._ But even as her eyes raked over his body, his face, his eyes, searching for some part of him she could hang onto, some piece of him she could learn to love, she was not truly _looking at him,_ just as he was not truly looking at her.

"On my honor as a Lannister," he said eventually, defeat heavy on his voice as he gave her elbow a squeeze, his warm, stubby fingers disappearing from the scene of her flesh, "I will not touch you until you want me to."

She still regretted what she had said next, the way his misshapen face had contorted with the pain she inflicted. "And if I never want you to?"

"Never?" he sounded as though he was trying very hard to control the pitch of his voice. She could only nod. "Why, that is what escort services are for, I suppose. Our friend Petyr Baelish knows all about the cash returns of such...establishments. I cannot be the only man in this city in a political marriage."

He kissed her hand one last time and let her dress herself; the King bed they shared was large enough to sleep both of them without disturbing the other, but even still, when her nightmares would wake her and she would listen to the sound of his deep breathing, his light snoring, she wished that she could convince herself to be happy with him.

It did not matter anymore, though. _Any minute now._

"Come, uncle Tyrion, cut the cake for all my guests," Joffrey slurred, shaking the cake knife at him, getting icing and crumbs on the both of them. Sansa flinched again. _My poor dress. It deserved better than this._

She stood by dutifully as Tyrion sliced and sliced, dropping the pieces of cake onto their plates and handing them to her, so she might hand them to the guests. She watched the tiers disappear from before him. _Will there be any left for us?_ She frowned. Sansa hoped so—the yellow cake was supposed to be lemon flavoured, and lemon cake was her _favourite_.

Despite her fear, however, there was a little over a tier-and-a-half left once all the guests had been served and her husband cut a slice for each of them and waddled back to their seats. She scooped up her fork and dug in as quickly as she could, hoping she could get the cake down before the diversion came. _Was I supposed to leave during the cutting of the cake? Was that the diversion? Did I miss it?_ Her stomach sank, and she scarfed down her cake all the faster.

Tyrion, though, was only drinking, as he was wont to do, she had come to realize. Everyone in this city seemed to be an alcoholic—Tyrion, Mrs. Lannister, Don Hollard...The Hound had been an alcoholic, she remembered, having even been so bold as to confront him about it one night in her ire. But he had only laughed at her.

Joffrey turned up then, drunker still if it was possible. "You haven't eaten your cake, uncle Tyrion," he slurred, wine glass still in hand. The other, which he had been using to steady himself against the table, he pushed into Tyrion's cake. "It's bad luck not to eat the wedding cake, uncle," he said as he shoved it into his mouth, chewing noisily, spraying crumbs when he spoke again. "See? It's good." He coughed and took another fistful, cramming it into his mouth hastily, though he hadn't finished his first. "Dry, though. Needs washing down." Joff took a swallow of his wine and coughed again, more violently.

Something stirred in Sansa as Joffrey continued to try to humiliate her husband, his coughing growing ever more insistent, his expression screwing up and his complexion reddening. _He is choking,_ it occurred to her, as guests had started to gather around him, patting him on the back, babbling advice to one another with increasing distress.

"Somebody call and ambulance!"

"Does anyone know the Heimlich?"

"Water. He needs water!"

_This can't be __**the**__ diversion, but it's definitely __**a**__ diversion, and I'm sick of waiting around._

She grabbed the bag at her feet and _ran_.

**A/N:** The nature of Sansa's abuse and treatment is contingent on what was socially acceptable behaviour towards an unmarried girl, which has *cough cough* _changed_ in the last five hundred years or so. I always saw Ser Dontos as a slimy git who was taking advantage of her, and "taking advantage" is very different these days than it was then. I'm afraid this isn't as bad as it will get, either, so brace yourselves if you need bracing.

This chapter was based on two songs by The Used: "All That I've Got" off _In Love And Death _and "On My Own" off _The Used.__  
_

Oh, also, say hi to the review box down there! It gets lonely if you don't.


	3. Chapter 3

_Step 8: We made a list of all persons we had harmed, and became willing to make amends to them all._

Sandor tapped his pen against the legal pad. [_tap tap tap tap tap_] He could think of people who needed to make amends to _him,_ his own brother foremost_...but what could amend making a monster of me?_ he asked himself darkly. [_tap tap tap tap_] He'd hurt many people, but not because of the drugs or booze. Much of what he'd done, he would have done sober. Might be that makes him a bad person. He can't recall ever caring as much. [_tap tap tap_]

Only one name slouched across the paper, penmanship clumsy and unpractised. _I can't even do her name justice_, he thought darkly, just before snarling at himself for the sentimentality. He was half tempted to scratch her name off, but he knew he'd only end up writing it again, trying to make it look neater, perhaps, and doubtlessly failing to do so. [_Tap, click, tap_]

How was he supposed to go about making amends to her if she'd disappeared? It'd been weeks since the little prick's _tragic _wedding, the night she had escaped without a trace. _A world without Sansa Stark...and here I was, thinking it couldn't get any uglier..._He snickered at his sentimentality. It didn't make it any less true.

But he had to try. He _had _to. This was only the second step he felt he could do properly, after the first. Steps 2 through 7 had all assumed the addict believed in a higher power, some Godlike figure meant to be tolerant, encompassing all beliefs. Not his. The only power Sandor believed in was his own, the strength of his mind and his body, the endurance of his spirit, set against the inevitability of death, who would win the match everyone was born fighting eventually.

Desperate, he glanced at the blue printed card again, _12 Steps of Alcoholics Anonymous_ in graceless glossy black ink across the top. Step eight only demanded that he become _willing _to make amends. He sighed. _Willing and eager, Brother. _He put a check beside it as if to congratulate himself, giving the lonely check beside step one (_we admitted that we were powerless over alcohol—that_ _our lives had become unmanageable_), only to find discouragement anew on the next line.

_Step 9: Made direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so it would injure them or others._

_And we're back where we started. _

_Well fuck._

He pushed himself away from the cramped, ill-lit desk in his cramped, ill-lit room in the clinic's cramped, ill-lit halfway house, seeking relief of any sort in the bright-green fluorescents that lit the clinic and its adjoining chapel's exteriors, even if only the relief found in stretching his legs and letting the damp, heavy Louisiana summer air tangle itself in his hair. For a moment he entertained the notion of walking the six long blocks to the diner for a milkshake, but thought better of it; the heat and humidity were too oppressive, and the employees always gave him fearful, disgusted looks, even after tipped them well and been nicer than he had to be. _Shallow, ungrateful shits. And that's just for your face, _he'd thought to himself scornfully, _imagine how they'd look at you if they knew how you fought._ But he knew what they would look like, and after so long of enduring everyone's _looks_, it was nearly all the same to him. _Maybe there'll be some coffee left in the pot._

He let himself in the side door of the modest red-brick building, white walls taking on a yellow sheen in the light. It was late on a Tuesday night, but the building was open to him at all hours. "_Case you ever need to talk t' Jesus. He's always there, you know,"_ the Elder Brother of the parish had said to him with a smile and a wink.

Sandor usually took advantage of the privilege for the coffee pot.

His footsteps fell heavily on the worn berber carpet within as he paced the familiar twisting route to the kitchen, deep in the belly of the church complex, and there it sat like a warm regret, steadfast and reliable though not without the egregious modesty all church kitchens seemed to have, something in the entwined odours of off-brand bleach and cheap coffee as familiar and safe as something he wished he'd done differently. He paused just outside the kitchenette, listening. Much like his regrets, though, Sandor liked to pretend he had no such fondness (or dependence, if he was being honest with himself) on lingering there, wallowing in the substandard-ness of both, and accordingly liked to avoid being caught lurking, if only for the sake of maintaining an austere and unpredictable facade. The kitschy mug, chipped and stained and worn, was too small in his hand and the coffee he slopped into it was tepid and weak. The mediocrity of it all comforted him; it was all no better than he deserved.

Quiet as a cat in the shadows, startling Sandor so fiercely that he jumped and spilled a little of his coffee on his shirt and jeans, a warmly-smiling apparition materialized in the opposite corner of the kitchen.

He may well have been there all along.

"You keep drinkin' that coffee late at night, my man, you ain't never gonna get to sleep."

"I didn't see you were here, Brother."

"I wasn't, really. I was wit' God." The man beamed at him again. "Are you wit' God, brother Sandor?"

He sipped his coffee with more care than necessary, postponing his answer. "Can't say."

"Mmm," the Elder Brother said. He looked Sandor up and down, as he was prone to do, as if he was reading him. "Are you on to makin' yo' amends, then?"

Sandor scoffed into his mug, deciding to top it off and put it in the microwave to make it scalding, as he liked. "Turns out amends are harder to make than I thought."

"Mmm," the Elder Brother hummed again, not understanding. "It's a tryin' thing, admittin' you wronged somebody."

"That's not what's _trying_ for me." He turned his back on the Elder Brother to shut the microwave door.

"Ahh, yes. How d'you go on makin' amends t' somebody who gone disappeared in a puff o' smoke?"

Sandor ground his teeth. "I _asked_ you not to talk to me about her."

"And I'm ignorin' you. Just 'cause you _aksed_ me don't mean I got to listen to you 'bout it...And besides, you started it."

There was something like spite in the man's soulful voice, though there was not a cell of such maliciousness in him. Sandor watched the coffee cup revolve around in the microwave, the dull, buzzing hum of the machine unnatural and harsh. It irritated him that the Elder Brother knew about the little bird, and brought her up so often in their exchanges. If it had been his affection for her that drove him crazy and put him at the mercy of the pills and the booze, he wanted to keep his weakness for her to himself; if it had been his affection for her that drove him to fix himself, to take his "12 steps" and emerge a sober, better man, he wanted to keep his strength in her to himself. Whenever he could, though, the Elder Brother of the parish came busting down the doors of his secret place where he kept her, as if he thought reminding him of her was helping him to heal.

(Maybe it was.)

Weeks ago, Sandor had sat alone in his car on the banks of the Trident River where it feeds into the mouth of the Mississippi and cried out for death with the sound of her name, but it had been the Elder Brother who had found him instead of the Grim Reaper. The man, older though he was, had carried Sandor's bulk to the back of his own car and taken him to the clinic he administrated, where he stitched a wound Sandor hardly remembered sustaining in his thigh, high as he had been, and nursed him through the detox and withdrawal that left him shaking and crying like a child. Because of the depth and placement of his leg wound, Sandor had to stay at the clinic longer than he would have liked, trying to get to a place where he could walk stably again, and in that time, he had let the Elder Brother get to know him. There was something in the unflinching honesty, tenderness and faith in the old man that endeared Sandor to him, and the nearly-unsettling way the man seemed to know what Sandor thought and felt without ever saying as much.

Sort of like right now.

Sandor pulled the coffee out of the microwave and took a gulp in silence. It was too hot and still stale, but he flinched not.

"I don't suppose anyone else ended up on that list o' yours?"

"You know the answer to that," Sandor rasped.

The old man chuckled. "Too well, I'm afraid."

That was how he had "hooked" him, so to speak—encouraged Sandor to stay at the parish, digging graves and tending the gardens in exchange for his room and board, so he could come to the Alcoholics Anonymous meetings and let the Elder Brother keep an eye on him. The affair was so wholly out of what he thought to be his own character that it just might serve in changing it. (For the better, he hoped.)

Sandor had been skeptical, though, so skeptical, lying there in his too-thin too-small clinic bed, tired muscles feeling every rod and bolt making up the rickety bed frame as it protested beneath his wriggling bulk as he squirmed under the Elder Brother's keen eye. He had asked Sandor to stay with them again.

"Why do you want to help me?" Sandor asked him with exasperated finality, groaning.

The man gave him a wizened smile, and folded his hands in his lap with a sigh. "When I was a young man like you..." But Sandor gave a sneering laugh at the cliché, like steel dragging on concrete. The man's expression hardened, and he leaned forward. "Now-now, son, I been listenin' t' yo' fevered rants for weeks now, treatin' yo' sicknesses in this here clinic o' mine free o' charge. Least you can do is listen to a well-organized answer to a question _you _aksed."

Sandor blinked at him, shrugged and crossed his arms, trying to appear grudging as he listened. The man took a deep breath, rubbing his legs, and started in.

"I suppose you's the sort o' man who thinks all mankind is naturally selfish n' that nobody does nothing 'cept fo' themselves. Well. Mister Clegane, I want to help you 'cause I been where you goin', and I wish I hain't. Part of me believes—irrationally, you'll say, but it's there; I can't ignore it—that by savin' you I'll save some part of myself, save me some regret, ease this weary conscience o' mine."

Sandor was about to ask where it was that he was _goin'_, but the old man continued speaking.

"There was a girl for me too, and I wish it hain't ended the way it did, but my life-choices, wit' the drinkin' and the fightin', it got in the way o' what was really important. Her."

"Don't go making me cry, old man," Sandor sneered.

"I think you still have time to find this _Sansa,"— _Sandor couldn't help but pale then, as he used her name for the first time. _What have I been saying to him?!_—"and make it up t' her, whatever you let happen t' her. If y'all were that important t' each-other, I'm sure she'll forgive you eventually, so long as you work hard enough at earnin' her forgiveness."

Sandor turned his head, swallowing the heat gathering in his throat, behind his eyes. "She was important to _me_...Don't think I meant shit to _her_, though."

The man reached over and clapped him on the wrist. "You never know. If there's anythin' I learned 'bout women over my years, it's that they often say 'xactly what they don't mean."

"I'm _pretty sure_ she doesn't miss me much," Sandor growled.

"You never know, 'less you aks her."

_Fuck, he's right...who's dabbing at your lip when it bleeds now, little bird? Who's watching you to make sure you don't fall from your cage, trying to fly?_

But his heart sank again. She had seen the darkness in him—he wore it on his face, after all. _So what,_ he used to try and make himself think, watching the way everyone's eyes would flick to him and flutter away politely, feverish and changed. Hiding his darkness would do nothing to improve the way the world saw him, not after what had happened to his face. He could not help but rage, rage senselessly, his whole composure nearly always shuddering with his barely-leashed, animalistic instinct to wreck and destroy. He hated Greg for ruining his face, any hope at handsomeness or charm burned away, but he hated him more for leaving him _alone_ in that place. He was _burned_, and no one would _look at him,_ and there was no place more lonesome than that.

"You ain't no _hound-dog_," the Elder Brother had laughed, when Sandor first told him his name was _Hound_. "You a man, same as me."

"How do you know?" he had rasped through gritted teeth. "I may look like a man, but I'm no better than a Hound, once you know me." He might have been a man, perhaps, if Greg hadn't seen to that. But he was what he was—his face and his soul were changed utterly. No one could do anything about that now.

The Elder Brother laughed at him, and as if he had heard his thoughts, said "I hardly believe that."

"You don't know me."

"I know _men_, son. Believe me, you a man."

And that had been the end of that conversation, leaving Sandor in equal measures comforted and confused.

"You wanna make a fresh pot?" The Elder Brother asked him, jerking him back to the present and gesturing at the chunk of cheap plastic that served for making the coffee. "I feel we're gonna be in here for a while yet."

"Are we?" Sandor nearly growled over his coffee cup, tipping the rest of the mug into his mouth. He was sad to see it go. "If you say so."

The Elder Brother went through the motions of making the coffee and sat down at the modest wood table in the center of the kitchen. "Sit wit' me, Sandor."

He obliged him, saying nothing, looking at the man expectant as the coffee dripped.

"I been aksin' God 'bout you, son. 'Bout how I can best serve you in yo' search fo' the right path."

"Oh yeah? What's he been saying?"

The Elder Brother grinned. "I was hopin' you'd aks me that."

Sandor raised his one eyebrow.

"He told me t' send you away."

Sandor barked a laugh. "Did he? Smartest thing he ever told you, I'd bet."

"Now-now. I ain't just turnin' you out..." the Elder Brother slid a large yellow envelope across the table to Sandor, who, interest duly piqued, unwound the fastening and began picking through it with audacity. There was a rental contract for a shabby-looking house, a job application and tax form for a position as a gardener at a funeral home, and a picture, stealthily taken, that iced his blood.

_Sansa._

It was her; there was not a doubt in his mind. Though her face was thinner and her hair dyed dark black, eyes rimmed so heavily with kohl she looked like a raccoon, there was no guise under which she could hide from him. After a moment of gaping, he snapped up to look at the Elder Brother.

The coffee pot hissed in the silence.

"_Where?_" he snarled. "_How long have you known?!"_

"I didn't. Not fo' sure. Got that envelope today from a friend o' mine in another church, addressed to you. Had my suspicions, though. Varys' always got some sorta trick up 'is sleeves."

"Tell me where she_ is,_ Brother, or so help me_ God_..."

"Go to that house an' settle yo'self. Fill out that application n' turn it in. You'll find her afore long."

Sandor almost toppled the chair in his haste to get out of it, his heart pumping out in turns elation and frustration.

"Sandor?"

It took all his self control to pause and turn his head.

"You'll need these, I'm thinkin'," the Elder Brother said, tossing him a set of keys, foremost a worn, nicked-up key to a great black Cadillac SUV Sandor had thought totalled.

He turned around completely, still looking at the keys, disbelieving.

"You had my car fixed?"

"A friend o' mine's a mechanic. I called in a favour," he said nonchalantly, pouring himself a cup of the hot coffee.

Sandor laughed once, a sour sort of sadness building in his chest. "Thank you," he rasped.

"Don't worry about it. Now hit the road. You got alotta drivin' ahead of you, son. Kalispell, Montana ain't 'xactly up the road from here."

Sandor laughed. "I suppose not." He gripped the keys in his hand, feeling them warm in the palm of his hand, wishing he had something else to say to the Elder Brother, to thank him for all he'd done. Instead he choked on his words, his voice breaking beneath him with what must have been sincerity. "You keep drinking that coffee this late at night, Brother, you'll never get to sleep."

The old man smiled, eyes twinkling. "There's Lord's work t' be done, son. I'll sleep when I'm dead."

Sandor packed his few things hastily and found his beloved Cadillac in the parking lot, its sleek black body gleaming, completely restored, the chocolate-coloured supple leather seats rid of their stains. It was even sweet-smelling within, untainted by the scent of piss or vomit or cleaning supplies. He smiled crookedly. The California license plate still read _STRANGER_; it was the only adornment on the vehicle.

Leaving the Quiet Isle Methodist Parish behind him with a disproportionate lack of feeling, he stopped at the diner for a milkshake to go, indifferent to the looks from the staff, and sipped it contentedly as he drove southwest on highway one, the sea to his left, blacker than the moonless sky above it, and to his right, the distant orange glow of civilisation, to which he made his return. He cut up through the marshes until he met the interstate, Stranger purring as wordlessly as Sandor's own thoughts. The churn of the engine was like some great beast's heartbeat as he rode out the night on the open road, until he stopped somewhere outside Alexandria, Louisiana, tilted his seat back and slept, as had been his custom when he made his way from California to Louisiana in the first place.

(He remembered her sister, tied up and wrapped in a sleeping bag in the back of the Cadillac, her incessant rustling and muttering against her gag an insistent reminder of his mission. Jackson Hole, it had been for them, taking her off the streets, out of the grips of that wild band of punk boys that would have made a criminal of her before long, back to her mother and brother. Maybe they would have thanked him, given him some shelter from the Lannister-Baratheon's stormy wrath, but probably not. Either way, it didn't matter now. After they had set off towards Boston again—as the least he could do was take her back home, after all that—they got into an altercation with some friends of his brother's at a gas station who had demanded a higher price than they ought to for the pills he sought, and it had ended in a knife fight. The girl had made herself useful, taking out one of the bastards and even going so far as to dab at his wound with an alcohol swab, but he had been too high to realize the severity of his injury, and by the time he did he was already so far gone as to beg mercy from her like the pitiful animal he was. And though she had been with him through so many miles, filled with panic and sadness and rage, though he had saved her when _she_ needed saving, she would not give him that one gift. _Selfish bitch_, he had thought of her, but maybe it was for the better. Only the terminally dramatic have the courage to die young, and Sandor was anything but.)

The sun was up and his car was sticky with heat when he woke, snagging breakfast and wolfing it down as he continued west and north, crossing into Texas and giving Dallas a wide berth. He was an hour or so past Salina, Kansas, when he turned off the highway to sleep again. On his second full day he drove like a maniac, making it all the way to Billings, Montana. On his third day he arrived, unwashed and smelling of filth and french-fry oil. He would not have raced so quickly but for his thoughts, all of her, a pensive frenzy; he would not have ambled so slowly but for his fatigue.

The roads were long and flat, and there had been a simplicity in them that even the push-and-toss of digging graves had not managed to offer, as though the scenery, in its bland and perpetual shifting, had provided a sort of visual quiet that he had not yet known. He knew well a peace in driving, urging engines towards an ever-elusive horizon, but this peace was a new sort. It brought a certain understanding to him, the way clouds the same colour as his eyes brought rain.

Usually he did not pose questions to the mystery of his adoration of, enamouredness with and devotion to Sansa Stark. It was as much a strange, disconnected and necessary piece of his being as the girl herself had yet become, for her symbolism and her function. His first impressions of her had reminded him of himself, of the boy he had been before Greg killed that boy, burning away everything he had been and leaving behind a skeleton and a shuddering rage monster who, in maturing, had taken the form of a Hound. Having her around was almost like having his childhood back, all smiles and stories and fantasies, though she had been weeks shy of eighteen and coming in earnest to the full flush of her feminine beauty at the time, so completely removed from anything he had ever been. Upon recognizing this conflict—so similar and different she was—had he commenced his studies of her, watching with an attentiveness his father surely would have wished he'd had in school, if he'd still been around to wish it.

When the initial enchantment with her loveliness wore off, which was sooner than he would have liked, he came to see the disparity between them, the child he had been and the animal he had become. She did not know the cruelty that the world bore, even her own gently-manicured and securely-padded one. Her eyes, blue as the Pacific, were tightly wrapped with silk blindfolds, wrongfully assuring her of the world's benevolence, and it was all he could do not to rip them off her face. He wanted her to _look_—look at her father, and realize he was no saint for the lack of attention he gave his wife and children, (and all for the sake of ambition, and to what end?) look at her fiancée and see his sick, manipulative sadism, so much worse than his mother's, look at _herself_ and see the way she enabled them all, the way she let them think her naive, weak-willed, _stupid_...

He wanted her to know that she was better than that, better than them, that she deserved better. (Better than him too, he thought whenever he was being wistful, but it was such an annoying, dramatic thought to have, so he shoved it away whenever it arose.) She could be the picture of feminine strength if she wanted to, but it seemed she did not. Defeatism suited her, he supposed, though the notion set him surging with ire. All she had to do was stand firm, reach out and claim her strength, but how would she know it was there for the taking, if she never peeked around her blindfold and took a _look?_ If anything, the time she spent in the Lannister-Baratheon's penthouse apartments had only wound her blindfold tighter against her face, so tight it might smother her soon. It was likely to, if she didn't do something about it.

_She could start by looking at me..._

Sandor always prickled at that thought, almost as upset with himself for thinking of it, dwelling on it, letting it wound him as he was upset with her for making it so. The girl had only met his eyes once, in the abandoned warehouse, right after she watched her father die so near to her that his bloodspray adorned the toes of her shoes like garnet chips. The horror of his face was no worse than a jack-o-lantern on Halloween by comparison, and so she allowed Sandor to squat before her and wipe the great welling ruby of her blood off her lip, the act of touching her face as natural to him as breathing, better than natural. The moment was intimate but brief, and shaped by the profound horror she had just witnessed, so bright that no blindfold could have kept it out of her eyes, tied however tight. All too quickly she had slipped back into darkness, though, accepting and enabling and meek in a way that made him want to shake her, furious.

She'd asked him once, seized by some queer surge of bravery, why he said such awful things all the time. "I'm honest," he had said, "it's the world that's awful." _The little bird, of all people, should know that by now, _he'd thought currently, glancing over his right shoulder to merge out of the passing lane, _she'd know it if she took a look around her, _he thought repetitively.

_She could start by looking at me..._

For all his frustration with her, though, she was for him a channel through which he could see the good in the world again, though he had long thought it illusory and lost to him, somehow, she made _goodness_ real again. And even though he knew, and reminded himself frequently, that she had been _trained_ to chirp so prettily, little bird that she was, the iron fortifications of his composure and steel cell of his heart (or whatever Greg had seen to leave of it) were as good as wet paper armour against the onslaught of her kindnesses. He realized, half-grudgingly, that she was the only person around him that treated him like a man, with thoughts in his head and feelings in his heart. Even against his snarls, his brusque words that scared her so, she was ever kind to him. Kinder still, it occurred to him, as he repaid her kindness with his trust and the occasional pittance of a sacrifice, like the "_enough_" he'd growled that had had indeed not been enough to stop Joffrey from beating her savagely and tearing her clothes from her body before his whole boardroom. _She was kinder to me than I ever deserved,_ he thought coldly, brooding on his failure, _or maybe she wasn't, but the whole world has so embittered me that I forgot what sweetness I could have._

Maybe she thought she could save him. She said she had thought as much of Joffrey, once, peeping at him as she did sometimes with a thoughtless naivety that made him roil in frustration with her, insisting that all Joff needed was her unconditional love and support, and that he would come around and right the wrongs he'd subjected her to eventually. It was a pretty little thing, that lie she told herself, but it profaned her sweetness, leaving a sour taste in his mouth as she greatly undervalued herself. _You are better than that!_ He wanted to scream at her, then and now and forever, _any man who could ever think to harm you is so far below you he should be infinitesimal from where you stand. Take that unconditional love of yours and support yourself with it._ But he had ground his teeth instead, then and now and forever. Sansa Stark was not his to council.

If she wanted to save him, though, with her sweet words and smiles, her unconditional love and support, he would take it, as he had always taken anything she would give him. That, and no more. But was it not salvation he sought from her now, in the form of forgiveness, a lesser bastard cousin of unconditional love and support? Was that not what he was driving so far to get from her? Had she been trying to save him too, after all, those times she'd chirped so prettily,? _We'll see, little bird..._

_She could start by looking at me..._

And the road rolled on.


	4. Chapter 4

_These are the essentials that will make you disappear._ A ceramic hair-straightener, two boxes of permanent hair dye in blue-black, a fat kohl pencil blacker still, an assortment of mostly-black garments for varying climes, and a pair of army-surplus boots, also black. Sansa chewed her lip. _It's just not...__**me**__..._

_Better than being dead,_ something inside her rasped honestly. She could not help but grudgingly agree, sighing and fidgeting with one of the boxes of hair dye, muttering something about how different she would look.

"That's the objective, is it not?" Petyr had said darkly, coming out of the hallway of his wing of the house to show her his own raiment of red tartan flannel and thick baggy jeans. It was strange to see the former Baratheon lawyer and old family friend out of his customary silk suits, but they both had parts to play now, and those parts came with costumes.

This, apparently, was hers.

_Everyone's gonna think I'm a cutter,_ she thought fretfully, petulantly. _I'd rather lend myself to the mercy of the Tyrells than let anyone think me a cutter. Oh God..._

Sansa started to feel the weight of the last 36 hours settle into her body, an insistent pressing like it was trying to mould her to its will. In a sense, it was...

_Don't trip don't trip don't trip don't trip!_ Her toes had flexed and pointed, echoing years of ballet as she bounded away from the reception hall where Joff was choking. It was selfish of her to take advantage of such a thing—she should have stuck around to see how he fared, if he fared at all—but she could not run the risk of missing whatever diversion Don had arranged for her. Scrambling, she ducked into the bathroom farthest down the corridor from the doors to the reception hall, her fingers fumbling first with the lock and then with the zip of her dress, but still she was outfitted in her blacks more quickly than she thought possible, certainly due to the fact that she'd forgotten to pack herself shoes.

_Fudge!_

Sansa peeked out the bathroom door before she took off running again, towards her room this time, for the pair of black chucks she'd mindlessly left behind. She pulled her room key from where she'd stuck it in her bra, praying it hadn't fallen out over the course of the evening, kissing it when she found it hadn't. The lock did not stick, but the lights were slow in turning on, flickering so that the whole room seemed to quiver, unstable. She broke a nail as she pulled the sneakers onto her feet savagely, lacing them too tight. She didn't care.

Had she not seen the thing out of the corner of her eye, slumped forgotten over the back of a chair, she might not have given pause, but, as it turned out, the worn, overlarge brown leather jacket _did_ catch her eye, and she _did_ pause, for a moment. _Sandor's jacket. He left it with me last time I saw him._

She closed the distance between herself and the chair with a single stride, snatched it off the chair back, pulled it over her shoulders and took off running again, picturing the rosebushes Don had told her to run to.

Corridors seemed to lengthen before her. Doorways were impossibly far. Somehow, she made it onto the back lawn by the supply road, sprinting, sprinting, sprinting for the bushes. A figure in black there stood, hands in his pockets, waiting.

Something began to pull her hair, and though she did not slow her stride on account of it, one hand made its way up into her hair to determine the cause. _My comb._ She yanked it out, pin she'd used to stay it tearing at her scalp. When it came free she clutched it desperately in her hand. The rosebushes were closer now. She ran her thumb over the stones adorning the comb as her legs worked over the grass. One was missing.

The empty silver socket was wet with something. Curious and tiring, she willed her legs to carry on as she brought the thing to her face for a sniff, not expecting much; when she smelled it, though, she recoiled in further confusion that quickly turned into shock. She could not remember the name of the substance, but she recognized the smell of it from a poison control seminar she'd taken once, in supplement to her lifeguard training back in high school: a poison that, when even the littlest bit was ingested, it caused the victim's airways to close, leaving them to choke on nothing. To _choke_.

Her feet slowed as she drew near the bush, where Don awaited her, but that was not why. Horror was filling her up slowly with its cold leaden weight, the sound of Joffrey's coughing echoing in her ears.

"_Somebody call an ambulance!"_

"_Does anyone know the Heimlich?"_

"_Water. He needs water!"_

_No. No. No no no no no..._

"Sansa?" Don whispered urgently, pulling on her elbow. "Sansa, did you hear me? We have to go. _Now!"_

But she was shaking too much to move anymore. Her knees were knocking together. All she could see was the hole in the comb, glistening black with the stuff.

_Please, God, forgive me..._

"Did you poison my comb?" She asked in a whisper, unable to look away from it. Don went quiet for a moment, his grip on her arm slackening and falling away.

"The little prick had it coming...I did it for you and for Margaery..."

Sansa stumbled back, seized by so many thoughts at once.

_He killed Joffrey._

_I killed Joffrey._

_Margaery? What's Margaery got to do with this? Her Grandmother was touching my comb_—_did she put the poison there? Did she remove the stone? _

_Did __**Mrs. Tyrell**__ kill Joffrey?_ As soon as she thought that, though, she remembered—Mrs. Tyrell had been born a Redwyne, an old Italian mob family that ran a string of successful wine boutiques as their cover. It was not the sort of thing that was beyond her family...from what Sansa understood of the Redwynes, it was actually somewhat tame. _Like the sort of thing an old woman would pull._ Horror struck her anew.

But she was a nice girl, and nice girls don't go assuming things.

"Why. Would you. Do it for Margaery," she managed to say. It was not a question, but an accusation implicit. She spoke deliberately, moving her mouth around the words, her lungs too frozen with fear to raise her voice. She could not have met his eyes for all the world.

Don only swallowed.

_You knew he was too stupid to help you by himself,_ a voice curiously like the Hound's snarled in her head. Had she wished, once, that Don Hollard had some of his ferocity by half? It was not a time to remember such things. It was a time to...God, if she only knew _what to do!_

"I...I just thought..." but whatever excuse he was coming up with for the slip of his tongue, it was too little, too late. She knew he'd betrayed her to Olenna Tyrell, and the woman had used her as a pawn in a plot to murder Joff. The guilt that wracked her was not half as strong as the cold, dry rage that made a desert of her throat and she too swallowed, once, twice, thrice, beginning to shake.

"You let them murder him," she whispered, her voice like dry leaves skittering on a sidewalk, "and frame me for it."

She managed to look up at him then, forcing herself with a jerk of her chin, remembering the way it felt when the Hound had tugged her up by her jaw, begging "_Look_ at me!" And while Don's face was nicer to look at than Clegane's, he was at that moment a sorrier sight to see. His eyes were distant, frightened, weak; he was not going to help her, she realized. _Clegane would not have sold me out._

As her ire settled into her marrow, cooling and tempering her bones, Sansa felt momentarily strong. "I am going to the police," she said icily, _My skin has turned to porcelain, to ivory, to steel_. And it was almost a pleasant thought.

A nearby glow in the bushes caught her eye and for a horrific moment Sansa was sure she'd seen a spectre. A face hung illuminated just behind the next bush, eyes downcast, something about the harsh ridges of the features vaguely familiar. It was his red moustache that gave him away though—one of Mrs. Tyrell's twin bodyguards, though Sansa would not have known which. Her breath caught in her chest, giving her a moment of silence to listen to a faint _clack-click-clack_ing as the man fired away a text on his phone, which cast the eerie glow upon his face.

She would have preferred to have seen a spectre, because there was not a doubt in her mind to warm the fear that now froze her: he was transcribing her words in report to the Tyrells.

_...no no no no no no no..._

Sansa spun on her heel and ran for the back road snaking away from the resort like a secret, leaping out of Hollard's reach, gravel beneath her feet threatening to twist her ankle. _Don't trip,_ she thought with a quiet urgency. She heard Don's footfalls crunching after her, and the Tyrell thug's too, perhaps, though they gained naught on her strides. A sort of wilful power surged through her as she bounded forth, _adrenaline,_ she named it first, _the will of God. _

The Tyrells would kill her if they got their hands on her, and Don seemed like he was tasked to make sure they did. She denied the option of failure. She banished the thought of futility. All she saw was the road before her, stretching out into oblivion, and when she overcame the horizon she could rest.

It was unclear how far or how fast she ran before the first bullet exploded in the gravel beside her.

She gave a wordless cry as her heart jumped from her chest and she danced belatedly away from where the shot had hit, rocks flying up to hit her calves and thighs. A car turned onto the road ahead, hi-beams whiting out her vision, spelling out her doom. She dodged left and kept running.

"Sansa!" A voice she knew called out from the car, slowing to let her in. A second shot rang out to her left and she dove for the car, caring only that the voice was familiar, only that the voice offered shelter.

She tumbled into the back seat and got down instinctively. The seats were clean and smelled of mint. _I know this smell..._ It reminded her of laughing, gray-green eyes and a sharp, pointed goatee to match his sharp, pointed features. Salt-and-pepper hair, worn coiffed, whiter at the temples and forelock than elsewhere gave him an air of sophistication Sansa had always thought he made light of. Her mother's oldest friend.

_Petyr._

"Sansa, _are you alright?!_" Petyr's voice asked her, panicking from the driver's seat.

The car was lurching, whipping a sharp u-turn on the road. She heard a metallic _pang_ as a bullet hit the body of the car. She yelped, covering her neck senselessly, ducking down lower.

"_Fuck_ this," he sneered, leaning over and popping open the glove compartment, pulling something out that clattered and clicked. She heard another shot ring, this one missing the car, as he rolled the window down.

He leaned out, arms stretched, and the world seemed to stop.

Three shots rang out, closer to her. Petyr seemed to shudder with them, the quivering in his shoulders an echo of the _bang bang bang._ After the third shot he paused, slithered back into the car, tossed whatever it was back into the glove compartment and knocked it shut before putting his foot to the gas again and continuing to pull the car around in the gravel.

There were no more shots after that, just the aggressive purr of the engine as the car accelerated down the gravel road, a golden chariot riding out to oblivion, across the horizon, where she could rest.

Petyr leaned around as much as he could from the driver's seat. "Are you alright, Sansa?" he asked again, his voice thick with agitation, "what happened back there?!"

And she told him, words falling from her mouth quick as thinking. He asked her no questions after that, letting her curl her knees to her chest in the back seat of the car, focusing on the sound of her own breath coming and going, each moment waiting for it to hitch and sputter, to choke around a sob, or stop coming altogether.

It was several minutes before Sansa remembered that she had the capability of speech—something about the moments that had just passed had stricken them both to silence, it seemed, and so it was not until the car had turned surely onto the interstate heading north that she crawled over the console and settled herself in the passenger's seat beside Petyr Baelish, and another long minute after that before she said, "you _killed_ them," with an expressive finality that had more to do with her true feelings than her words did.

He gave a terse nod. "I did."

The three shots still shook her—_bang bang bang_—she swallowed the dryness in her throat and raised her voice again. "Where are we going?"

"Sansa Stark and Petyr Baelish? No-one knows."

"_We_ know, don't we?"

"Not in the slightest. We've never heard of Sansa or Petyr."

Sansa was confused but she didn't want to ask any stupid questions. In all her brief encounters with Petyr Baelish, he had always impressed her as a man of extraordinary intellect, and Sansa was not one for making a fool of herself before men with extraordinary intellect.

"How do you like the name 'Alayne'?" He said, as if the two statements had connection. She didn't see it.

"'Alayne'? It's pretty, I guess."

"Alayne Stone, then. I'll let you pick your own middle name, if you want one. 'Analisse_'_ could be worth your consideration. Something with a vowel. Another 'a' sound. An alliteration."

"...Okay, you lost me at having never heard of ourselves."

He gave a chuckle, almost patronizing in its gentility. "We've got to disappear, sweetheart. The Tyrells are going to pin Joffrey's murder on you, right? Well, for the sake of the your mother's sweet memory, I won't let them. I learned the basics of Witness Security procedure in law school—I'll give you a fresh start, Alayne. It'll be a great experiment."

"_Experiment_? Is this some sort of game to you?!"

"Well, I'd rather it be a game than a fight for survival. I was never much good at fighting—you could asked your uncle Brandon about that, if you don't trust me." He was smirking, sharing some joke with himself. It was a cruel one. Uncle Brandon had been dead for _years_. "You don't look like a particularly skilled fighter either, if I may say. Do you like games, Alayne?"

Sansa wrinkled her nose. 'Sansa' was her great-aunt's name, passed down from the women on her mother's side of the family. Her name was dear to her—it was her _name,_ after all.

But she answered him, regardless. "Games?...I suppose it would depend..."

"Better get used to playing along to this one, _Alayne_."

Over the horizon, as it happened, was seventeen hours away, up through the thick green forests of northern California and Oregon, across south-eastern Washington, nestled in the mountains of the Flathead valley in Northwest Montana, a town of 20,000 called Kalispell. Sansa had never heard of it. She supposed that was a good thing.

As he drove, Petyr thought aloud through the technicalities of disappearing. Alayne had grown up in foster care, until Petyr (who had deemed his identity safe to retain, in the end—after all, no one had seen him at the scene of the crime, the gravel road wouldn't have preserved any tire tracks, and the pistol he'd shot Hollard and the Tyrell thug with had been unregistered), her biological father, had found her and brought her home to live with him in his parents' old house, nestled high on a mountainside outside Kalispell.

Abandoning her identity meant abandoning both her enrolment in USC and any claim to the Stark fortune, which meant she'd need to get into a good college on scholarship if she wanted any hope of a life like the one she had known as a child. That meant repeating the college application process and her senior year at the local high school, which did not initially sound so bad to her; she had done well in high school as Sansa Stark, but now she had to be Alayne Stone, starting her senior year at a different school in a new town, new to everyone, even herself. Though she was in fact just shy of 19 (August 25 1993; Virgo), Petyr suggested that Alayne claim November 1, 1994 as her birthday, so she would turn 18 in the fall. It would be an easy enough day to remember—it had been the day Joff broke off his engagement with her, after all.

Driving through the town, Sansa could not help but stare out the window and wonder where the town was. Despite the grease in her hair, the thick, living smell of her clothes and the cramps in her legs, she could manage to spare a thought for other things, every once in a while. The salt stuck beneath her fingernails from all the fast food she'd been eating, or what classes she would want to take over again (Petyr would forge a transcript that included anything she wanted to skip, like PE and Calculus). As they made their way up the roads that led to the little house, her focus was principally on keeping the contents of her stomach off the car upholstery; when she finally made it out of the car on shaky legs, her thoughts were on the view.

_I must be able to see the whole valley from here, _she thought, stricken with the beauty of the place_._ To the south she could see the blue expanse of Flathead lake, forest and town bunched around it in turns. To the west was the town of Whitefish, the space between it and the larger gathering of buildings that was Kalispell spread with a patchwork of soft green fields, ornamented with clumps of pine forest and clefts of rock. On all sides of the valley were sheer, cresting mountains like jagged granite walls, gray and green and bare of snow in the height of summer, giving the impression of the valley as a great cloister, some impenetrable fortress. And above all that, the cerulean Montana sky, that was assuredly and absurdly bigger than any sky she had ever been underneath.

_**This**__ is country,_ she could not help but think, fond of the place already. The beauty of the place was undeniable but coarse, nearly rugged but for the almost-softness of the slopes, partially draped in deep green pine, and the quilted quality of the valley itself. _Almost like a picnic blanket, _Sans—_Alayne _thought.

"Get yourself cleaned up," Petyr said, putting his hand on her back delicately to steer her away from the small front yard, back into the house. "I'll see if there are any fresh clothes for you to wear. When you're ready we'll go into town and get the fixings to make you Alayne."

"Sure thing Pe—_Dad."_

He gave her a smile and patted her shoulder. "That's my girl."

The house was small but not uncomfortable. Poorly lit, perhaps, and the interior design of the place absolutely reeking of the seventies, between the vertical dark wood panelling and the orange shag carpet in the den. There was a prehistoric computer with a monitor like an anvil hooked up to a dial-up port set up in the room that was meant to be hers, piled high with dusty cardboard boxes filled with God-knows-what, the comforter on the fold-out bed a butter yellow patterned with big blue roses the size of her fist. It reminded her of one such comforter she'd loved as a child, and was immediately endeared to the thing.

As they made their way down the mountain to town, Sansa clad in her dirty leggings and a brown men's flannel shirt that smelled of mothballs and old age, Petyr said, "it might be easier for you to keep up your charade if you don't make many friends at school."

Sansa nodded in agreement, though it disheartened her to think so. If there was anything Sansa Stark was, it was friendly.

"I've got an idea to help keep people from striking up conversation with you. Especially in a town like this," Petyr had said with a creeping smile.

And that was how she ended up with a ceramic hair-straightener, two boxes of permanent hair dye in blue-black, a fat kohl pencil blacker still, an assortment of mostly-black garments for varying climes, and a pair of army-surplus boots, also black. _The essentials that will make you disappear,_ she thought with a sigh.

Then she reached for a box of hair dye, skimmed the directions and tore into it, lathering Alayne onto her scalp as carefully as she could, trying to avoid her skin despite the clumsy gloves that came with the kit.

An hour later she stood before the mirror in her bathroom, her skin almost chartreuse in the abysmal overhead light, an old towel wrapped tightly around her hair, as it had been since she got out of the shower. Sansa took a deep breath and closed her eyes at the last second, reaching up to unwind the hair turban, holding fast to the memory of the coppery colour of Sansa's hair. It dropped onto her shoulders with a heavy wet _plop,_ and with eyes still closed she combed it, parted it, and smoothed it down. Then, and only then, did she open her eyes to look in the mirror.

Staring back at her, her blue eyes sparked with anxiousness, was Alayne Stone.


	5. Before

BEFORE:

_**Fuck,**__ she is pretty_ he thought hopelessly to himself, taking in the grinning, glowing redheaded vision before him. Her great big eyes were elsewhere, meeting his employer's, deliberately shying away from his ugly scarred mug and leaving him alone as he admired her. _The kind of pretty that makes painters famous, if they can capture it,_ he continued, further considering her incredible beauty, though he'd already begun to mock himself for it. _Too good for the likes of you, dog, and too dumb, no doubt._ But though he'd seen pictures of Sansa Stark before (including a few she would be mortified to know the twerp had shared with him) and was perfectly aware that she was hot, it was not until this moment, as the party stepped off the Baratheon company jet, that he had seen her in the flesh and been hit with an understanding that the girl was _beautiful_. Truthfully, recklessly, dangerously beautiful.

He hadn't even recognized that he was freezing his balls off in the New England February.

_Hope the twerp appreciates her. _But Sandor knew he didn't. Since when had Joffrey Baratheon ever appreciated anything he was given?

He knew how to behave, at least, giving the girl a sweet-seeming kiss the moment he stepped off the plane and holding her hand every second he could for the rest of the evening. She played her part well too—blushing and smiling and laughing at everything the twerp said, not adding anything to the conversation or giving any impression of complex thought whatsoever. He was a little disappointed, really; he'd hoped for her sake that the girl would have something like a backbone she could use to weather the twerp's stormy moods. But if there was one thing Joffrey Baratheon knew, it was how to recognize a submissive personality, and Sandor doubted he'd even keep the number of any girl who did not openly display this virtue.

Once the week was done and there were no more parties he had to watch Joffrey and the Stark girl _enjoy_, both families and their entourages crammed themselves into the Baratheon company plane and set off on the long journey back from Boston to LA, with a planned pit-stop in Denver, as Mrs. Lannister-Baratheon absolutely _loathed_ flying and would not be made to endure any flight longer than three hours without stopping to stretch those endless legs of hers. (She was an established MILF to be sure, but in his time working for her family he'd come to _know_ her, and as coarse a man as he might be, her sex appeal, though extreme, was not near enough to overcome her character flaws, as far as he was concerned.)

And so it was that he had his first exchange with Sansa Stark in the Denver airport, scaring her so badly he thought she might cry.

She had probably been about to cry anyway, but the look in her eyes had cut him to the quick nonetheless, gutting him, choking him up, he who thought he'd hewn himself from stone. The girl had been locked in a stare-down with Payne, one of his 'co-workers,' so to speak, though theirs was hardly a friendly office environment. "You're shaking, girl," Sandor had said, trying to coax her attention away from the horror of a man before her. He'd put his hands on her shoulders and spun her around, watching her expression change from one of fear, to mild relief, to fear again, to disgust, and then back to fear, focussing her wetting gaze on his brown leather jacket, surely finding it more pleasant to look at than his red leather face. And as much as he knew he should be used to it now, after nineteen years of nearly the same routine from every person he'd ever faced, he was not. Her polite aversion to staring at him dug at his heart the same way it had when his teacher had done the same thing on his first day back from the hospital in second grade, freshly burned and alienated for the first time.

He gritted his teeth and found the hardness in himself, trying to ignore it, but instead he found himself asking, "Do I frighten you so much, girl?" He had meant to say something else—something nice, maybe, make some joke about how ugly Payne was, his pockmarked gray skin almost worse than Sandor's own (he did have _one_ good side, after all) but instead the girl had drawn the truth from him without even asking for it. He wanted to make her look at him, but was suddenly afraid of how he would feel if she did.

Joffrey came bounding over to save the day as she wrenched herself from beneath his hands, sending another stab of pain to his dignity and self- esteem and pushing him further out from her comfortable little world than he already was. _We live in completely different worlds,_ he quickly realized. And then (as if to drive home the point) it nearly broke his heart the way she smiled at the twerp when he barked at him, "get lost, dog, you're scaring my girl," as he pulled her closer by the waist, giving him all of her big blue-eyed attention. If looks could kill, it'd be that one that did him in. (And here he'd been, thinking that cliché always referred to looks received...)

_If you only knew how easy it would be to snatch her away with me,_ he thought darkly, though giving a curt nod and stalking off to find himself some food or drink. Johnnie Walker Red, maybe. But he sighed to himself, failing at distraction. He'd never just _take_ her. She'd have to _come with him_.

But that would never happen.

(Johnnie Walker won out over food.)

And so it was that he had his first exchange with Sansa Stark in the Denver airport, scaring her so badly he thought she might cry.


	6. Chapter 5

A/N: If you're likin' it, don't forget to leave a review! Thanks!

"I've got an early birthday present for you, sweetheart." Petyr's voice jarred her from where he leant smirking on the doorway, looking intently at her where she sat before her desk in her new all-black pyjamas, doing research.

In order to convincingly play 'the weird goth kid,' Sansa had been looking up music and fashions, and quickly found herself overwhelmed. There were so many nuances that were all but lost on her unfounded perspective, browsing Wikipedia pages on the varying sub-subcultures to try and bring Alayne to life, but so far all she had been able to glean was that it seemed crucial to wear your hair as big and spiky as you could get it and listen to music that was, generally speaking, dramatic, angry and/or pathetic. Some of the older music wasn't _so_ bad—The Cure and The Smiths were tolerable, she found, as well as the occasional song by Evanescence. She had just been clicking replay on 'Call Me When You're Sober' when Petyr made himself known.

"It's not my birthday for, like, two more months, Dad," she insisted weakly, though Sansa Stark's birthday was just ten days off.

He gave her a wink. "Of course it is, sweetheart. That's why it's an early birthday present." And then he stretched his hand into the room, offering her to take it. She acquiesced, draping her fingers loosely over his, letting him guide her in bare feet through the house and out into the driveway, where sat, silhouetted against the layered orange-and-blue sunset sky and looking thoroughly as though it had seen better days thirty years past, a brown-gray Mercedes-Benz.

Alayne gasped in surprise—she had never expected to _have her own car_ here, hardly an impressive specimen though it was. It was a relief, though, to be sure; she wouldn't have to rely on Petyr to chauffer her around now, giving her something of a 'normal' level of independence to go with her 'normal' high school experience. While her first car had been a yellow convertible Volkswagen Beetle, all a sixteen-year-old girl could want and absolutely as cute as could be, she understood the virtue of the old Benz that lay tiredly before her, cloaked in an air of defeat. This car was one that wouldn't call attention to itself, the sort that prompted no questions or stares, the sort that would blend in.

"It's not much to look at, I know; it was my parents' before, and it's been shut up in the garage for God-knows-how-long. I had it detailed and looked at by a mechanic—it should be running fine, he says."

She was thrilled.

"Ohmigosh, _thank you Dad!_" she said pointedly, keeping up the charade despite the lack of an audience on Petyr's insistence. If she _became_ Alayne, she wouldn't have to fool anyone, he'd said, and Sansa was not one to question. She threw her arms around his neck and gave him a sincere hug.

Petyr chuckled as she did, his arms winding their way around her back, pecking her on the cheek. It was not a stretch for either of them as she had always been tall for her age, long of limb and torso, and he was a relatively petite man. _Alayne's mother must have been tall._ "That's not all of it, sweetheart. Open the glove compartment."

With a shy but excitable smile she took the key he pressed into her hand and unlocked her car, sliding onto the worn, gray leather seat and reaching over to fumble with the glove compartment. Within, along with a little grit left over from years of use, she found a small black cylindrical object, accented with pink, looking something like a hooked flashlight or an electric razor. Curious, she brought it before her for closer inspection—it was wider on one end, the plastic of the body tapering into two prongs, and in white lettering along the side, it read _Stopper C2_.

She must have continued looking at it with confusion, because Petyr told her, "It's a taser."

Sansa recoiled, blinking at it before carefully tossing it back into the glove compartment and shutting it tight. Again came his gentle, rolling chuckle, his hand on her shoulder. "It's not going to shock you on its own, sweetheart."

_Where are your manners?!_ the shade of her mother screamed in her head. It spurred her to action. "Thank you so much, Pet—_Dad_. It's a very..._practical_ gift."

"Yes, I suppose it is," he said, brushing a piece of her now-black hair over her shoulder and smoothing it down. "In case you're ever in a situation you don't want to be in, stick 'em with the pointy end."

Sansa gave a polite laugh. "I'll try to remember that...Thank you truly, _Dad_, for everything."

"It's my pleasure to serve you, sweetheart," he said, his gray-green eyes meeting hers in a stare that lasted too long to be polite, slowly filling her with a sense that confused her, until it disappeared and he slid his arm around her shoulder, leading her into the house again with a playful grin. "Now, why don't you get some rest? You've got a big day tomorrow—my baby's first day of senior year! Look at you; you're growing up so fast!"

Sansa laughed mirthlessly. He was hardly old enough to be her father, after all, but Alayne had been born to him and her mother when they were yet teenagers, given up for open adoption and brought up in foster care. _It makes sense,_ she thought to herself insistently, looking up at his smooth complexion, and the gray in his hair. _It __**has**__ to. If I can't get myself to believe this character..._but she wouldn't let herself think that way.

She did have a big day tomorrow, after all.

Sansa was up before the rising sun, hair washed and blown straight, ironed straighter, and eyes rimmed thick in black; dark gray skinny jeans she wore, and a red and black horizontal-striped shirt that clung to her narrow waist, the spread of her hips. She took a short length of black cord and tied it around her neck in a simple choker, and another around a wrist. Her black chucks made their way back onto her feet, the scuffs on the rubber validating the outfit, giving it the accent of time. Sansa looked at Alayne in the mirror.

_I look like a raccoon,_ she thought, distressed, taking the eye pencil and adding a long flick out from the corner of her eyes, if only for the sake of her femininity, throwing the look even further into the absurd. _The scarier you look, the less likely it'll be that anyone tries to talk to you_, it occurred to her.

She momentarily considered coloring in her lips with the pencil in her hands.

"Alayne, sweetheart, breakfast is ready," Petyr said, appearing without knocking in the doorway again. He gave her a grin as he took in her outfit. "You look very nice." She groaned.

"I look like a serial killer."

"Like I said," he countered without missing a beat. "But come. Your eggs'll get cold."

Next to her breakfast settings, Petyr had laid out the envelope containing her class schedule, some money for lunch, her car keys, and a little track cell phone "just in case." She'd come to know her way about town more or less and was confident she could find the high school without getting too lost on the way. _It's across from that big cemetery,_ she remembered, the broad swath of green expanse interrupted by hundreds of little gray tombstones and flowers jutting up from the ground in neat little rows. _So corporate it's not even creepy, _she had thought of it.

Once in her car, Sansa wrestled one of the CDs she'd bought with her new allowance from its case and slipped it into the updated stereo system Petyr had put in for her. Her precious iPhone having been abandoned in LA (lest anyone should try to track her whereabouts with it) Sansa had lost all the music she'd held dear. In town, she'd made sure to grab the essentials: 'Good News For People Who Love Bad News' by Modest Mouse, 'Hot Fuss' by The Killers, and 'Lungs' by Florence + The Machine, but there was _so much_ she still missed. Horns blared, heralding the beginning of _Good News_, and as Alayne pulled out of the driveway and made her way zig-zagging down the mountain, Sansa made her sing every word.

She was three-quarters of the way through the album when she pulled into an open parking space in the student lot of Flathead High School, following the stream of kids hugging and screeching about their summers into the plain cinderblock building, bedecked in orange and black. "Welcome Home Braves!" read a vinyl sign draped over the main doorway, which led into a wide hallway lined with orange lockers. Hers was number 212, thankfully close to the door.

Sansa made her way to Alayne's homeroom, which she quickly figured was on the other side of the school. _That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard of, _she thought broodingly as she tried not to run into people, the expression that colored her face matching the rest of her brooding outfit. She saw a desk open in the second row and ducked into it hastily, trying not to attract attention to herself. She was apparently unsuccessful, though as she heard from behind her—

"Who's the new girl?"

"Dunno. Royce and her crew will be happy to see her, though. She looks almost as weird as they do."

"Maddy, she's right there, she can _hear_ you!"

"_She_ doesn't know we're talking about her!"

But Sansa was already blushing with shame, something hot and heavy amassing in her chest. _Stop it,_ she snapped at herself, _Alayne would be used to hearing stuff like this. All she called you was 'weird.' Relax._

Her homeroom teacher was one Mr. Colemon, who taught chemistry most of the day, a thin man with a thick neck and a receding hairline. "Welcome to Flathead, Miss Stone," he said kindly to her, though not without a grain of caution as he took in her attire. She nodded, her jaw set, and said nothing in return, for fear her voice would break. The bell rang and it was all she could do to keep from sprinting away from the room.

As the day moved forward, Sansa was plagued by the notion that she was starring in some awful teen movie or novel, the sort she had loved and devoured not five years hence. _With a little more rain and some sparkly Abercrombie models, this could be Twilight._ But Sansa was prettier than Bella was supposed to be. And Alayne was too, she supposed.

Exiting the cafeteria line ahead of the rush, she went to find an empty table in a corner at which to nestle herself among her mounting disappointments, the food on her tray a probable addition. She'd put her head down and started to pick at what might have wanted to be a chicken nugget when another tray dropped down with a _thwack,_ loud and purposeful beside her. Sansa nearly jumped out of her skin, hurriedly willing Alayne to take over for the time being.

"I was _wondering_ when I was going to catch sight of you," said a curvy girl with round red cheeks and lively brown eyes, sliding into the seat beside her. She was accompanied by another girl with short black hair in a choppy cut that covered one eye and a tall, broad boy with a square jaw and squashed nose. Like her, the party wore an array of black-on-black-on-black—the short fleshy girl in lace and frills with a huge silver ankh laid on her abundant breast; the black-haired girl, every bit as tall and skinny as the other girl was _not_, outfitted in baggy black jeans adorned with zippers and chains and a plain band t-shirt; the boy in jeans and leather and doc martens—each fixing her with an expectant stare.

Sansa gulped, but Alayne managed a smile. "So I'm not alone after all," she stammered, sitting up behind her tray as the party settled in around her.

"We were beginning to think that you were mythical," the black-haired girl added, sitting down across from Alayne. The boy took the seat to her left and slouched over in his seat.

"A 'new creepy emo kid.' At Flathead High. It was too good to be true," the first girl continued.

"And yet here I am!" Alayne chirped. Sansa was panicking. _So much for discouraging people from talking to me, Petyr!_ Alayne was glad for the company though. "Is it just us, here?"

"Just us," they agreed.

"We don't know your name yet," the black-haired girl said, lifting a sandwich to her mouth.

"And I don't know yours. I guess that makes us even." Her heart was beating wildly; was this supposed to be chicken? It tasted like sand.

"Miranda Royce. Call me Randa."

"Brune," the boy grunted. "Luther Brune."

"No one calls him Luther, though," the black-haired girl interjected. "I'm Mya Stone."

"Stone?!" Alayne drew up her eyebrows in shock. "My name's _Alayne_ Stone!"

"Are we related?" The girl asked, narrowing her big blue eyes in scrutiny at Alayne. She knit her brows together in response.

"I don't think so."

"You both have black hair and blue eyes," Randa observed, offering.

"I dye mine," Sansa said before she could stop herself. Her muscles pulled taut with fear as a silence hung in the wake of her statement for a moment. It felt to her like a confession, like a reveal. She might as well have screamed _MY NAME IS SANSA STARK! IF YOU WANT TO MAKE SOME MONEY, YOU MIGHT CALL OLENNA TYRELL AND TELL HER WHERE I AM, I'M SURE SHE WOULD BE MOST APPRECIATIVE. HER TELEPHONE NUMBER IS_—

"Lucky! I wish my Dad would let me dye _mine_," Randa whined. She nearly sighed with relief. "But back to what I was trying to say. You've distracted me before we've even started our conversation! Anyway, we kept hearing that you were here, somewhere, and that you were really pretty. I see that the gossip was right on both counts."

"Thank you," Sansa blushed, "that's very kind of you to say so."

"Kind? No, that was truthful. Kind is boring. I aspire to be wicked," Randa declared. Mya was rolling her eyes beside her.

"You aspire to be _wiccan,_" she corrected. Alayne chortled at the joke.

"I aspire to be both," Randa said, conceding without capitulating. "But we're getting off-track again. Alayne was about to tell us all of her secrets."

Sansa nearly spat her chicken out in surprise. "I—uhh..." _shit,_ Alayne thought; _shoot,_ Sansa corrected, _don't get flustered, they don't have any idea._ But her pulse was racing, regardless. "Shouldn't we start with things like where I'm from? If I have any pets—"

"Well we might as well start with the interesting stuff now. We're the only friends you're gonna have here anyway, and you'll come to trust us with it eventually." Randa said, cutting her off. Brune and Mya nodded in agreement, intent on their food. Mya made to swallow quickly, so she could speak.

"Could we suspend the Spanish Inquisition to hear about _your_ summer first, though? Let her get to know us a little bit, at least?" _Oh, yes please, __**please**__!_

Randa sighed dramatically. "I suppose."

She launched into a raunchy story about the singer of some band from Billings she'd, um, _gotten to know_ who went by the name of Marillon. "Turned out to be a creep," she added at the end of the harrowing tale that left Sansa and Alayne both blushing pink. "Pushed his manager off a mountain, I hear. He's going to prison for it."

"_Nice work_ Randa!" Mya said sarcastically. "You sure do know how to pick 'em."

"Shut up," Randa said, looking wistfully at her food. "I really want to eat now...so...Alayne! Now it's your turn!"

She felt her cheeks pink, looking down at her hands. "Uh...You're going to have to ask me questions." Otherwise she just might say something true.

_This is reckless. Say you feel sick and go to the nurse. Right now._

"Do you like guys or girls?"

"Or both?" Mya offered.

"Guys." She sighed a little. She could put up with questions like that.

"Tell us about the last guy you kissed."

_Shit,_ Alayne thought. This time Sansa didn't correct her. She had to make something up, and fast. Suddenly she remembered how the Hound had come into her bedroom, the night Joffrey had set the shipyard on fire. _He kissed me,_ she thought, _and made me sing for him. And he was crying, too. _And before she'd even made the decision to, she found herself talking about him. "He was _really_ tall," she began, "with long black hair he wore over one side of his face, to cover this big nasty burn scar he'd gotten as a kid."

"Was he built?" Randa asked excitedly.

"Yeah," Alayne said, trying to gush, finding it easy. "He was a boxer. A really good one. And he had this low gravelly voice that made him always sound like he'd lost his voice."

"Ooh," Randa giggled. "Jawline?"

"Sharp. All the angles in his face were sharp."

"Unf. What color eyes?"

Alayne had to think for a second. _It was his eyes that were the hardest to look at, all full of hate and anger_, she remembered, _hate and anger the color of flint. _"Gray."

"Damn girl! He sounds hot!"

"Not really," she said honestly. "Not like you're thinking." Randa frowned a little in disappointment.

"How'd you meet him?" Mya asked.

'_Do I frighten you so much, girl?' _he'd asked, the first day they'd officially "met."She'd been trying to be polite, trying not to stare...but _God_ it was so tempting, like a bad car wreck, she just _had_ to _look _at it. But she was well-trained in her manners, and only let her eyes rake over it after he'd snarled '_**Look**__ at me_' in her ear, and told her how he'd gotten them. It was a horrible story, twisted her insides with a hot knife like empathy. She'd tried to be nicer to him after that, tried to show him some respect, more than he got from most people; to have gone through as much as he had, and still come out _functional_...but the others were waiting for an explanation. _Time to get creative._

"He was friends with this asshole I was dating." (_Sansa, __**language**__,_ she could hear her mother screaming, _how could you say such a thing of Joffrey_! But Alayne's mother had put her up for adoption, and nobody had reprimanded her for her _language_, and she would not have loved Joffrey like Sansa had, put up with what she'd put up with for the sake of fixing him. But she'd failed at that in the end, hadn't she? And now he was dead. _I killed Joffrey,_ she remembered thinking.) "He...uhh...we hung out a lot, I guess, and he was always nicer to me than everyone else was. One night he got drunk and kissed me."

"Right in front of everyone?" Randa sounded excited by the possibility.

Alayne pictured it for a moment. "No, it was just us."

"Was it a good kiss?"

"Yeah," Alayne said, thinking back to it, his cruel mouth pushing down on hers. _I'll have a song from you, little bird._ "You could really tell he meant it."

"Aww!"

"So does this guy have a name?" Mya asked, shaking her jagged haircut out of her face.

_Uhm. _"Xander," she said. It sounded close enough, if she slurred it. "Short for Alexander, I guess."

"Do you two still talk?" Brune inquired.

("Oh, don't you even—" she might have heard Mya hiss at him.)

"No. I never saw him again after he kissed me." It made her sad, she realized. Where was the Hound now? Where had he gone? Did he know Joffrey was dead? He'd been his bodyguard for _years._

"Well _that's _disappointing. You didn't even have sex or anything?" Randa asked.

"Uhh..." _remember you can make it up, Alayne. _"Well..." she stuttered, blushing. Even though she _was_ Alayne for the present, Sansa was still _there,_ and she was dying inside at the thought of having sex with the Hound. _But this isn't the Hound. This guy's named Xander. _She pursed her lips and lowered her eyes, and managed to nod once.

"He was your first, wasn't he?" Randa asked, sounding every bit as though she already knew the answer. In truth, Joffrey had been her first, and she had given him what she could, what she thought he needed to be happy with her. It was never enough, though. And then there was Don, but she hadn't had sex with him, not really. _He lied to me,_ she remembered angrily, _he sold me out. And now I'm back in high school with these kids, pretending I'm one of them._ And Sansa hadn't had sex with the Hound either, though it occurred to her later that that was what he'd been asking for, going on about a 'song' from her. Naive as she was, she'd actually sung to him. Amazing Grace, she'd sung, a hand on his cheek and he, looming over her on her bed, had cried for it.

But all she said was, "Yeah, he was."

They were content with factual details after that, and Alayne moved back under the umbrella of her rehearsed story: a foster kid, passed from house to house, who thought she was orphaned until her Dad showed up this summer and moved her here. Yes, she liked it. No, she couldn't ski. Yes, she would like to go with them and learn once the resorts opened up, which shouldn't be so long from now, they told her.

Her first day became her first week, which morphed into her first weeks, stretching into a month and onwards. Every minute of the day she spent as Alayne, even at home with Dad when she made dinner or did the dishes afterwards, Sansa grew ever quieter. Alayne liked the way she looked in black, with heavy eyeliner and mascara, jeans tight against her thighs, too many bracelets on her wrists. Music by bands like Chiodos and Of Mice & Men found their way onto her iPod, gaining appeal as the harsh vocals and forceful, emotive drums gave her a sense of strength, like a call to battle in some distant time past. Every day was a battle, it seemed, to keep herself hidden, to keep herself alive, a challenge she was all too willing to take. _You won't get me today,_ she would sneer at the sunrise, donning Alayne first thing once Sansa woke from her dreaming. Where one girl ended, the other began.

Perhaps it was this exile of Sansa to their sleeping hours that made Sansa's life surrealistic to Alayne—recollections of Los Angeles and the Red Keep building, of Blount and Trant and Joffrey, they were haunts of her nightmares, but meant precious little when Alayne was awake. Alayne could have taken them, she liked to think, would have given them what-for. Alayne would have fought back. And Alayne would have died for it.

_Like Daddy._ (Taupe patent-leather, sprinkled with garnet blood, _my fault my fault my..._) She took a stuttering breath; no—Alayne never called anyone "Daddy," and would _never_ be caught dead wearing taupe patent-leather heels. Alayne had killed no one.

It would astound her, in ordinary moments, just how quickly Alayne had taken over. She'd catch a glimpse of her handwriting, sometimes, and just see _Sansa_ lingering in the shape of a letter, in the curly tail of a _y_, or she'd make a gesture and realize it belonged to Sansa's mother, throwing her right hand around while she spoke, or she'd find the smell of cilantro on the air as Dad was preparing dinner for the two of them, and suddenly it would drag her back to days when she had surreptitiously watched the cook at work preparing her mother's dinner parties, a small girl peeking up from behind the countertop, thinking herself hidden in her mass of auburn curls.

It was a sleek black curtain that hid her now, though, and her father's hands she watched. _Dad,_ she'd think, laying the name on him like a shawl, draping him in it, trying to mold it to him. Alayne would ignore the wordless whimpering of Sansa's protests and focus on the novelty of _having_ a Dad, someone who took care of her because she was _his_ well and truly, not because the government had burdened him with her. She was his _daughter_. He had come back for her, eventually.

And that meant more to Alayne than she knew how to say.

September waxed and waned with such a demure grace that it was nearly ten days into October before it hit her that the month had turned. She'd showed up at school the day before in a new fitted t-shirt she'd bought with Randa and the gang in Billings that weekend, and in shivering almost all morning long it occurred to her that summer was done with. She glanced out the window—when had the leaves begun to change? The trees were so different here, vertical and scrubby and windswept, with papery bark and tiny leaves that shivered and shook in the lightest breeze, nothing like the stoic, stalwart hardwoods of New England, sycamores and maples and oaks with trunks so big it took two or three sets of arms to encircle it completely.

But Alayne knew nothing about New England.

Remembering her own shivering, she went through her closet in search for something to wear over her arms, finding only the brown leather jacket that had once been the Hound's, the one he'd left with her on the night he'd kissed her, the only thing (other than her chucks) she'd kept from Before. Sansa panicked at the thought of wearing it—would it be safe? Alayne certainly liked the look of it—grungy, she thought of it—and it smelled faintly of cigarettes and sweat and man. It slid over her arms easily, though it dwarfed her figure, hanging well down her thighs, sleeves even longer than her long arms. Glancing in the mirror, she decided she liked it. Though the jacket knew her secret, had borne witness to it, hanging off her shoulders then as it was presently, something in the way it covered her told her it would keep her secrets, that it wouldn't give her away.

_This was Xander's,_ Alayne thought, folding the jacket into her story. _He took my virginity and left me with nothing but a jacket to remember him by._ But she remembered how it had really been. _'Little bird,'_ he'd whimpered, the cheek she caressed slick with a thin wetness, before he'd gotten off her and charged for the door so abruptly she didn't have time to stop him. He'd left his jacket on the threshold, though. As if that was all she'd ever need from him.

_If he had stayed, I wouldn't be here,_ she knew.

She couldn't say how she felt about that.


	7. Chapter 6

He woke from dreams of fire.

It was as often fire as not, these days—a marked improvement over the last two decades or so of his existence. They didn't bother him anymore, not on an individual basis at least, but rather kept him suspended in the hollow plane of after-terror that so imprisons one who has been through the sort of things he's been through. He sees the look in his brother's eyes those nights, feels it wrench in his gut and he _knows_ what's coming; he's caught him at it again, the red of Superman's cape the same red as his hands. The same shade of red his face will be in a minute, as it splits and melts and runs freely with blood. Some days he wakes up and wonders if his dreams are worse than the burning was, in the realm of truth. He knows they are not. The dreams don't leave him scarred, just shaken.

(What he wouldn't give to just be _shaken._)

Sitting upright with an unnecessary urgency, Sandor Clegane rubbed the sleep from his eyes and looked outside. It was evening now—he must have been asleep for a long time. _Serves me right._ He was frustrated to have lost the time, but he'd slept little and less in the two days he'd been in this wretched, sparse little town, searching high and low, but had yet caught no sight of the little bird, no whiff of her scent, no sound of her song on the wind.

"_Go to that house an' settle yo'self. Fill out that application n' turn it in. You'll find her afore long."_

But how long was long?

Rising, he took a hasty, scalding shower, letting his hair drip warmth over his shoulders and down his back well after he'd emerged, towel tucked tight around his waist. He wiped the thick steam from the mirror until his face appeared, scarred and wrecked as it was, and glared at himself, his own insides twisting—twenty years and he had _never_ gotten used to it, though he studied it with a morbid fascination habitually, knew every fold, line, crevice, every blotch, fissure and pock. His right ear was misshapen, all but welded to where his jaw joined his neck, and he'd lost three finger-widths of hair on all sides of it, though with the way he kept it brushed, it was hardly noticeable. The folds of angry pink and purple skin ceded to his natural tan where his cheek met his nose, all but a bit of his nostril left unmarred (not that it made him any prettier, big, hooked thing that it was). The fires had gotten the corner of his mouth too, and the hard line of his jaw, only a thin layer of flesh covering the bone there, red and slick and angry. The worst, he thought, was the dark sink of his eye socket, the way it threw his gray eyes into shadow, which seemed to make them shine out, like a dog's caught in a glare. His scars made up the gates for his living hell, locking him in his loneliness, shutting everyone out, scaring everyone away. _Even Mom. Even Sissy..._

He hated himself for it, but he couldn't even remember what his sister looked like. Not after what Greg had done to her, anyway. Oh, the cops thought they had their man sure enough, but _one look_ at Greg _smirking_ from where he sat in the courtroom and Sandor knew, _he knew, _and tried to tell them as quietly as possible, knowing full well, burned just three years hence, the price of his brother's attentions_;_ they ignored him though, shunned him like the plague, all wincing at his burns, at the sight of his face, none of them _listening_. But what sane man listens to the desperate pleas of ghost-children? He met his eyes in the mirror—_he_ would, he liked to think, but then of course he would; they'd be of a kind, him and the child, each shades of who they could have been.

He took a breath, watched his chest rise and fall, the muscles beneath both his smooth and scarred flesh rippling as he ground his teeth against the wave of pain that came with remembering. It used to be a quivering rage that overtook him, possessing him always, a cloak on his shoulders, a shimmer in the shroud, but he'd shirked that armor to heal what was beneath that. He had to face this pain, the Elder Brother told him, in order to heal it. It would not do to be set aside. He had to _face_ it all, starting with his face. Could he accept it, one day, if he stared at it long enough? What if a woman came to love it?

_Little bird_, he almost wished, feeling her name on his lips like a prayer—but no, _don't be ridiculous_, how could she? Hers was a love reserved only for those of equal beauty to her; nature did not allow for such inequity in matches as theirs would be—it would be paradoxical to nature for her to ever love him: fairest beauty on earth today, caressing in the secrecy of a room they shared the horrid ruin of a man he was. Even he, in such an extreme state of _want_ could see the absurdity in it. _She can't even look at you for Chrissake..._

(_Can __**I**__?)_

_**Fuck**__ I want a drink._ A little relief from this agony, just a shot or two, to take the edge off the pain he was in. Or a Xanax. Just one. It might even do what it was supposed to if he took such a small dose, might just ease his anxiety. Or maybe he could take two, or three, crush them up and take them into his lungs, win himself an hour or two of sweet, sweet oblivion_—_but _no_, Sandor thought, _**no**_, he couldn't do that. He'd worked for twelve long months at getting clean. The Elder Brother would be so disappointed, and that mattered to him..._Sansa_ would be disappointed, if she knew. She'd be disappointed when she saw him. When he saw her. Even if she didn't know enough to care about it, she would.

Sandor grit his teeth—he wouldn't cave. Not tonight. He'd stay strong for her sake, the girl he could never have.

He fed himself food he didn't care to taste before abandoning the dishes in the sink and driving to the cemetery where he worked. Some daylight lingered in the sky still, but it would not be long before night came on him, soft and sable-black, flecked with stars so thickly that clear skies were clouded with them.

He'd forgotten what stars looked like, it seemed.

Gravediggers were men who belonged to the night, disciples of the Grim Reaper himself. No genteel working-man should be forced to observe the Gravedigger's silent craft, every dig-and-toss a reminder of what was to meet us all, at the end—it was bad for business, his manager said. And so, when there were graves to be dug, Sandor was to dig them the night before, making them neat and deep and square under the cover of darkness, lest man remember his mortality after all.

Studying the plot map that was hung in the caretaker break-room, he noted the location of the grave that needed digging that night and set off with a tarp, a shovel, four stakes and a length of orange guard-chain, to keep anyone from falling in. Because the plot to be dug had neighbours on all sides, it would not do to use the backhoe this time, though he was looking forward to the first opportunity he'd get to try it out—the graveyard at the Quiet Isle Methodist Church did not have such fancy toys for him to play with, and there was something to be said for having a job that gave one a key to some piece of machinery. Yet at the same time, much of the satisfaction he derived from his work came from the rhythmic, meditative act of digging, crafting the hole with his hands, and like as not he'd lose that sense if he started to cram himself into a little machine to get the work done. There was something impersonal about it, seemed to him—he didn't imagine _he'd_ like to be covered up to rest with finality by a little yellow backhoe.

As he walked out to the site he followed the path along the road, across from which he could see the great cinderblock construction of the local high school, which despite being some hundreds of miles removed from the one he attended in New Mexico, seemed no different than what he'd known back then, younger and angrier, coming into his profound loneliness hand-in-hand with manhood. He'd come into his freshman year six feet and 180 pounds of raw sinew and muscle, and in four years he grew twice as many inches, watched as his shoulders broadened, his body bulked out. The football coaches were after him like crazy, back then, the only people who ever made him feel wanted in his life, until he remembered they only wanted him after the memory of his brother. Greg had been their star linebacker, after all, led the _Lions_ to a National title each of his four years. Some idiot had even let him be captain his senior year, probably the same idiot who was trying to convince his burned little brother to come to practice "just to try it out." Sandor had spat in his face and taken his detention gladly.

After school he'd go to a dusty old gym three towns over and pummel his fists into weighted bags, waiting for some modicum of his rage to leave him, but all he ever seemed to get out of his system was sweat. '_You've got talent, kid,'_ the old man who owned the gym would tell him occasionally, whenever he stopped hitting something long enough for his breathing to slow. '_You're crazy-strong, and faster than you look like you should be. Could go pro, if you wanted. I could teach you.'_

It wasn't until spring of his freshman year that he took him up on it, though, when he realized that his talent might be a way out. He was good in school, better than anyone who'd known his brother expected him to be, but he wasn't good enough to get the sort of scholarship he needed to get _out of New Mexico_, which, at his age, was the only thing in the world he wanted. Four years later he had a boxing scholarship to USC. He didn't even know there were boxing scholarships anymore, banking on going pro right out of high school, but when he got the letter headed with _Congratulations!_ he knew better than to argue.

These were the things he liked to remember about high school, about how he proved them all wrong and got a full ride to a good school. Sandor ignored memories of kids on skateboards who tried to befriend him, who wanted to use his strength to carry out their wrath, who wanted to use him to hurt kids who probably didn't deserve it. He shoved the petitioners instead, breaking _their_ noses, stuffing _them _into lockers, and was branded a monster for it all the same. He ignored memories of girls too, all the girls he'd ever liked, hiding their eyes when they found him staring. In ninth grade he'd been foolish enough to talk to one—Stacy, her name was, a sophomore with green eyes and hair like beaten gold. Her laugh was not as pretty as her face, though, and after that he didn't bother with girls anymore. It hurt less to pine quietly, thinking of their boyfriends as his fists met bags in the gym, than to actually put himself out there, subject himself to their flinching rejections, their elsewhere eyes.

None of _them_ would look at him either.

The grave did not take long to dig, the displaced dirt heaped neatly on the tarp he'd laid out alongside it. He drove the stakes in at the corners and threaded the guard-chain around them in a rectangle, taking the shovel back to the caretaker's shed as he went back for the burial-vault. It was a cumbersome thing, all burial-vaults were, but it was not difficult for him to carry out to the grave, his blood and muscles warmed from the dig. Once it was set up and the chain replaced Sandor made his way back to the lot where he'd parked Stranger, his night's work done, and found, to his surprise, parked across the lot an old gray Mercedes.

_The Cemetery's closed. Who would be here at this time of night?_

Sandor decided he was curious to find out, closing the distance between himself and the vehicle, laying his hand on the hood. It was cool; it'd been parked for some time, then. Peering inside he saw strings of dark beads and air fresheners hung from the rear-view mirror, along with what appeared to be a bat-shaped ornament, and an ankh. _Goths. Great. This should be fun._ Absently he began to wonder if he'd stumble upon some sort of twisted ritual sacrifice. He doubted it. This little town couldn't possibly be _that_ interesting.

He rolled his steps so his footfalls were silent on the gravel and the grass, keeping to the shadows as he headed for the older section of the cemetery, where he knew the headstones were prettier. Sure enough he found her, just one tall, black-clad slip of a girl, inspecting the monuments atop a little swelling hill no more than fifty yards away, all but fading into the dark of the night with its near-absent moon. He was about to call out to her, tell her the place was closed, when she turned, pacing lazily around a headstone, trailing her fingers along it, and he caught sight her face, his breath hitching in his throat, his stomach closing around some ethereal fist sunk in his gut.

_Little bird._

He froze, staring at her face, waiting for her to turn around again so he could find someplace to hide, some way to scrabble closer to her, needing to watch her, drink her in. Darting behind a tree, he followed her paces with his eyes as she continued to make her way through the headstones, taking the time to read each one, sometimes crouching to run her fingers over the lettering or brush some dirt from their shoulders. He crept closer, weaving from tree to tree, and soon found himself ensconced within the sacred sort of silence she seemed to have built for herself here. There was something reverential, spiritual even, about the look on her face as she observed the stones, the grass, the sky and stars above them. This was as happy as he'd ever seen her, he realized, in her own quiet space, away from the prying eyes they'd both known in LA.

She was looking better than she had in the picture he'd been given: there was color back in her cheeks and the black makeup around her eyes looked less harsh; smokier, maybe, if that was the word. She wore chunky boots on her feet and tight leggings over her legs that looked skinny between the boots and the oversize leather jacket she—_that's my jacket!_ He noticed, something hot like lightening shooting from his heart to his throat and back again. _Good God, she's wearing my jacket._ But what did _that_ mean?

It was almost too much to watch her then, stepping carefully around the graves like a dancer on point, until she came to settle on the base of some great obelisk, tracing the words she found there with her long, white fingers.

And the little bird started to sing.

"Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me...I once was lost but now am found, was blind but now I see."

And then it _was_ too much, those notes, those words, that sweet voice taking him back to the last time he'd seen her, when he'd left her and the jacket behind so shamefully, so cowardly. He stood then, his knees almost buckling beneath him as he paced to her, slow, like a procession, until he was only feet away from her, his approaching steps covered by the sound of her singing, her attention still turned to the inscription on the obelisk. The words of the hymn, he observed.

When she paused, sighing a pretty little sigh, he found the breath to speak. It sounded harsh, even harsher than his voice usually did, like metal on concrete, scraping. The only beauty to be found in it was the word that he spoke.

"Sansa."

She jumped and spun around wildly, her blue eyes wide with surprise, landing right on his. A flicker of recognition, and then panic, as she stood, pulled something out of her pocket and held it out threateningly. She seemed to remember something, then, her voice shaky as she insisted,

"My name is Alayne."

He gave a mirthless laugh, and though his heart was weighted with tenderness, his words sounded sinister to his ears. "You can't fool me, little bird." _Your face is too beautiful to ever forget._ He watched her as she danced on her toes, her brow furrowed, clutching the thing in her hand. It had two prongs, he saw, topped with metal nodes.

She lunged before he recognized it, though, and sent a white-hot stab of electricity through his body, taking his knees out from under him. The ground was suddenly plush against his face.

And the little bird was flying away.

_Fuck it, no you don't!_ And though dazed he heaved himself up off the ground and started after her, eyes never leaving her back as she raced through the rows in lithe leaps and bounds, even her fevered sprint looking like a dance in his eyes. _When will you ever get a grip, dog?_ But he knew the answer to that question, and pressed himself harder after her.

Once his strength trickled back into his body it was no time at all before he started to gain on her, pumping his arms in time with his legs. She spun around to catch a glimpse of him, springing into a single pirouette, her new black hair spinning in a great whirl along with her. Seeing how close he'd gotten she feinted right, dashing between a couple of headstones before bounding ahead with renewed vigour, or maybe panic.

"Sansa, I just want to talk to you," he called, but she only ran harder.

"My name is _Alayne_," she nearly screamed, turning right now, making hard for the parking lot. Sandor felt for his keys, hoping he wouldn't need them, hoping he could still her first.

Trying to be careful, he guessed, the little bird shuffled her way down the little bank that led to the parking lot—he had more to lose, though, and leapt after her, landing almost close enough to touch her at the bottom of the hill. Her panicked breathing was a melody against the time-keeping _clunk_ of her boots on the asphalt, and he was close enough to smell her shampoo now, _so close..._

"Little bird, _please,_" but he saw her keys glinting in her hand, her steps slowing as she reached her car. He gave one final push and wrapped an arm around her waist, spinning her around to face him and hoisting the hand with her keys above her head, pinning her other arm to her side. She writhed and whimpered beneath him, their chests coming together and apart with their laboured breathing. "I just want to talk to you."

"Let _go_ of me!" She hissed.

"Not until you promise to hear me out."

Her eyes flicked up into his for a moment, as if defiant, as if that weren't exactly what he wanted her to do. _God _it was so good to see her again_._ "Go to hell," she growled, fighting in his grip.

"Been there, done that. Couldn't stick around, though. Someone had to come back and see where the little bird had gotten off to."

She was huffing and fighting him in vain as she spoke. "So who sent you, then? I thought you were done with the Lannisters."

"I am. No one sent me, little bird."

She paused, looking up at him longer this time, searching. Her struggle stilled but he held her fast—a caution, he told himself, though he drank deep the feeling of holding her close. "What do you want from me?" She challenged lowly.

He wanted to stroke her hair, her face, make some affectionate gesture; he cast aside his eyes and swallowed. "I...I wanted to say I was sorry."

"For what?" She sneered, "for stalking me and throwing me up against my car? For fetching me back to whatever hell you've sprung from? You're _sorry?!_"

"I didn't—" he started, but she cut him off again.

"_Who sent you_?" she screamed again, wroth. "Do you work for the Tyrells now? Did they send you to find me and kill me?"

Her big blue eyes were opened wide as if with some terrible secret, like the apocalypse was playing out in front of her and she was paralyzed to stop it. The rest of her features were held in a practised mask of anger, defiance, but her eyes betrayed her truth. _She's so scared; give her some comfort, dog. _"I'm not...I...Sansa, I..."

"_Alayne." _

"Alayne," he echoed, sad to see such conviction in her denial. "I'm not here to fetch you back anyplace. I just want to talk to you."

"To tell me you're sorry, yeah." She spat, glaring up at him again. Since when was it so easy for her to look at him? "Well whatever you're sorry for, you've said it. Now get off of me and let me go back into hiding, please." _There she is. And here I'd thought she'd forgotten her manners completely._

"It's not that easy, little bird."

She groaned, relaxing against his arms, her features composed with frustration. "Then _what?_ What do you want from me?"

"I want to make it up to you," he said, hearing his words, making them real, terrifying himself. "I want to make amends. For not protecting you in LA. That was...That wasn't right. I knew it, but I wasn't man enough to step up and stop it. I want to make it up to you, however I can."

Something in her expression softened then, her eyes settling on his in a look so gentle and lingering it threatened to tear him apart.

"You won't hurt me," she said, to herself and to him.

He let her go then, disgusted with himself. Was he such a monster that it'd taken her _that long_ to come to that conclusion? Despite it all, he leaned down until his face was level with hers, taking her chin between his forefinger and thumb like he used to, though she was looking at him already, he didn't have to force her. They stared at one another for a long moment before he sighed.

"No, little bird, I won't hurt you."

She nodded. That satisfied her, he guessed, and she sighed, looking away but accepting it. "So how were you planning to...make it up to me?"

"I was going to leave that to you to decide," he said, stepping back and slipping his hands into his pockets. "I could be your dog now, if you'd like."

"I..." she was the one stuttering now, "I don't—I..."

"Want to sleep on it?" he heard the rasp in his voice like a whisper, making him sound sinister again. She nodded, looking back up at him and tugging his jacket closer around her shoulders.

"Yeah."

"Is there someplace I can meet you? Tomorrow afternoon, maybe?"

"Father will be suspicious if I come home late from school," she said, looking at her boots. He pushed his disorientation aside to listen to her. "But I could sneak out of seventh period, I guess. It starts at two."

"You go to school over there?" he asked, jerking his head towards the cinderblock structure behind them. She nodded. "So where do you want to meet?"

"Uh...Here, I guess, is as good a place as any?"

He couldn't help but smile. "So that obelisk, then? Two o'clock?"

"I guess so."

"I'll see you there, little bird." He resisted the urge to kiss her forehead, pacing backwards towards Stranger.

"See you," she chirped meekly, turning and unlocking her car, apparently aware of his scrutiny. She got in, buckled herself up and started off, giving him a tentative wave before turning out of the parking lot and speeding away, her face not blank but equally as unreadable. His guts felt like they were made of lead.

_She looked at me._

No dream of flames yet lingering in memory could have shaken him more than that.


	8. Chapter 7

She could not have said what it was pulling her to the cemetery that night, though she recognized an insistence on the part of her soul, seeking out the quiet company of the lost and forgotten. It was a cliché, perhaps, a goth kid wandering about a cemetery at night, but to Alayne (and Sansa too) it sounded like a peaceful opportunity to be alone with her thoughts, her two selves, in a place with no expectations, among people who'd make no judgements. _And it's an excuse to get away from Dad._

That had something to do with it, she conceded to herself; the mood in the house had been off since Alayne had presented her father with the list of colleges and universities she was considering applying to over dinner. It was nothing ambitious—just the public Montana State schools—but still her Dad had been vehemently opposed to the idea.

Dad composed a tableau of himself: he had stopped chewing, fork still in hand, julienned carrots speared chaotically on the prongs, his brows hanging heavy over his eyelids, his eyes holding a vacant glare.

"You think you're going to college?"

"Well...yeah. It's kind of necessary these days if you ever want to get a job."

He nearly gave her a start moving so suddenly after such purposeful stillness, putting his fork down very carefully, and folding his hands on the table before leaning towards her. "College was never part of our agreement, _Alayne,_" he snarled.

"I mean..." she sputtered, "I'm not expecting you to pay for it or anything. MSU Northern is just over ten grand a year, in-state, and that's including room and board." He'd frozen again, though a more dangerous expression possessed his face, frightening Sansa and drawing further explanation from Alayne. "I'd be able to pay for it with student loans, I mean. And I was kind of hoping I could find some scholarship money somewhere anyway."

"It's not about the money; don't get ahead of yourself," he dismissed, waving his hand before leaning over the table. "Why would you put your cover in jeopardy for some shitty degree when you're s_afe_ here?"

That set her off. "Oh, and what?" Alayne sneered, slamming her fork down on the table. "I'm supposed to be _so afraid_ that someone's gonna find out who I was and sell me out to the Tyrells that I, _what_, go and work the lifts at Big Mountain for the rest of my life? Wait tables at Chili's? Is _that_ the life you'd have for me?"

"Do _not_ use that tone with me, young lady. Not after all I've done for you," he threatened, the look in his eyes horribly familiar. She knew looks like that from a life before, and it sent a shiver down the spine of a girl she hadn't been for months. "You're _undercover,_ Sansa, and don't you ever forget it."_ Did he just call me __**Sansa**__?_

_Well if it's __**Sansa **__he wants..._

Carefully she softened her expression, creasing her brow and lowering her eyes, shrinking into her shoulders, picking her fork back up meekly. It was a caricature, really, but he didn't seem to notice or care. She let the silence expand, as if she felt guilty about how she'd acted.

She didn't.

"I'm sorry, sir. I should have been more sympathetic to your point of view." It almost sounded like a whimper, her voice did—and _oh_, how that voice threatened to take her back, as she heard other phrases she'd spoken echo in her head. _Please, don't,_ she had always seemed to be saying, _I had nothing to do with my brother's sabotage. Please..._

"Apology accepted, darling," he said stiffly with a sigh. "I'm only trying to protect you, sweetheart. That was all I ever wanted to do," he said cloyingly, picking up his fork again. "So. No more of this nonsense?"

_No more of my future, you mean? Oh wait, that's right, __**what future**__?!_ Alayne thought irritably.

"No, sir. No more."

"That's my girl. Always so beautiful and polite. Just like her mother," he said, giving her a saccharine little smile that made Alayne want to hurl something at him from across the table.

But Sansa made herself smile back.

It wasn't quite so much as a fight in truth, not once Sansa was called forth to take over, anyway. As soon as she was excused, Alayne rushed back to her room where she began to flick through her meagre CD collection (she'd get a new iPod on her birthday, Dad had promised, but that was still two weeks away) with desperation to find something that would ease the mounting frustration in her chest that pressed out on her lungs and made it hard to breathe but in gasps. She considered each of her old standards in turn but none of them seemed to fit—it was only when she pulled a CD she'd burned from Mya's collection that she found a song that quelled her anger, brought the air back into her chest. Jumping and stomping and singing she danced, danced until she fell back on her bed, yellow comforter and blue down pillows suddenly soft against her body. But when the stars came out that night, picked out white against the blue velvet sky, she found she could not sit still.

She pulled on her boots and Xander's jacket, resisting the urge to pull it over her head in hiding as she dashed out into the main part of the house and grabbed her keys off the kitchen counter as surreptitiously as she could, her boots _clunk_ing with her every step.

"Where are you going?" Dad asked as if uninterested over the top of his computer, but Alayne knew better.

"For a drive. I want to clear my head."

"Okay," he allowed, closing the screen. "Come and give me a kiss goodbye."

She looked around. "There's no one else around, there's no need—"

"Be a good girl and give me a kiss, Alayne."

_So I'm Alayne again, am I? Well. _But his words were refuted by the look in his eyes, one part stern, one part hungry.Swallowing the breach in her composure and resisting the temptation to roll her eyes, she closed the distance between them in three long strides, bending over his chair to kiss him on the cheek. Dad's hand came up to rest between her shoulders as he twisted into her, meeting her lips and holding her there just long enough to push it from a peck to an innocent, almost familial kiss. Alayne withdrew, unsure if she should feel scandalized, knowing there was a blush creeping into her cheeks and desperate to hide it. "Goodbye, Dad," she said quickly, spinning on her heel. Was that a triumphant look on his face? She didn't want to think about that.

"Keep your taser on you," he warned.

"I will."

"Call me if you're going to be out very late."

"I will."

"Don't forget, you've got school tomorrow."

Alayne paused in the doorway. "Dad," she chided, glancing back at him.

"Right. Sorry. You're a big girl," he said, opening his computer again. "I guess I get caught up in the whole fatherhood thing that I forget you can take care of yourself."

"Peace Dad," she said in dismissal before he could prattle on. _Well __**that**__ was weird, _she thought, settling into the driver's seat and buckling herself in, determined to think of it no more. Alayne had brought the CD she'd been listening to with her into the car, turned it up as loud as she dared and sang every word she knew to try and distract herself. It almost worked.

The CD was nearly finished by the time she pulled into the cemetery across from her school, parking lot all but empty, space nearest to the funeral home on site occupied by a monstrous black vehicle that, from the quick glance she took, could well have been a hearse. She pulled in opposite it, her new car ornaments swinging from the mirror as it lurched to stillness, and set off to explore the parts of the cemetery that were hidden from the view she got in class, behind the swell of a hill or a line of trees.

The air was crisp in her lungs as she breathed it in, curling the jacket further around herself as she examined where the evergreen forest met the stars in a jagged, immediate horizon. The light gravel path gave beneath her boots in gentle crunches as it led her back along the trees past the crest of the hill she saw from school, neatly arrayed with black and white granite tombstones polished to such a sheen she could have applied her makeup in their reflections. She stopped for a moment in a pool of yellow light pouring forth from the parking lot, appreciating the image of herself reproduced on all these monuments to the dead, stretching out before her, overtaking the hill and maybe the whole world too, each relaying the image back to her of this girl—_me_—costumed all in black, her little face taken over by wide eyes and a set, clenching jaw and seemed to say: _this is who you are now, Alayne. But where is Sansa? Does she belong to us?_

_No,_ she answered them soundly, thinking of earlier that evening. No, Sansa was neither dead nor gone; she was hiding, being _quiet_, having given herself over to Alayne as she'd been told to. Alayne, who would keep her safe by scaring everyone away, who would _never_ let anyone get close enough to see through her secret: that she was invented. Synthetic. A veneer.

_Am I?_ She asked herself now, crossing her arms and pulling the jacket tighter still around her, until it was tight against her bones as flesh. _Might be, but I had to be made from something. To come from somewhere. Some part of me has been here all along, just as some part of her will always be a part of me. As long as I live, so Sansa lives._

_But she might have been dead before long, if I hadn't gotten her out when I did_, she thought,turning back to the path before her and watching out of the corner of her eye as the headstones she passed became progressively simpler.

The life she'd been living in LA was not one that promoted longevity, not with the company she kept. The company she'd been kept by. Sansa had chosen a golden prince for herself, let him put a promise on her finger, and more of another kind all over her body, blooming purple, black and green, promises of terror, of cruelty.

She'd stuck by her man, though, a virtue she learned at her mother's knee. Loving a man meant giving up all your power to him, making yourself smaller than him, forgiving him his imperfections. _A woman's love can turn any beast into a man_, her mother had told her, explaining why Beast had just turned into a beautiful prince in the cartoon she was watching. Sansa had insisted on watching Beauty and the Beast every day after that for months on end, often wearing the yellow Belle costume her mother had bought her in hopes that it would help her own Beast find her, itching for her own happy ending.

When she first met Joffrey she had thought him too beautiful to ever be a beast, but as he came to know her, came to trust her with his dark sides, she saw he was indeed more monstrous than any beast she'd ever imagined. But that only meant he needed her love all the more to heal him, unconditional, forgiving, limitless.

_Life is not a Disney movie, sweetheart,_ Dad had said to her once, when he still wore silk suits and she called him "Mr. Baelish," but she hadn't been smart enough to listen to him then. Besides, Joffrey must have had a reason to be treating her the way he did. He was under a lot of pressure, she told herself, running the company at such a tender age. He was upset about his father's death—Mr. Baratheon had never been much of a family man—and this was how he was expressing his grief. And she had done something to upset him, always so awkward with him, saying things she didn't mean, meaning things she didn't say. It wasn't his fault he didn't understand her.

Hindsight is 20/20, though, and she could recognize it now: Joffrey was a sadist. He had liked seeing her in pain, and that wouldn't have stopped. His family played a dangerous game in the way they ran their companies, fast and loose and hoping for big profits, jumping into bed with other well-connected families like the Tyrells to bolster their strength and influence. That was how she'd been roped into their game, strung along with the rest of the Starks, but they were all gone now. Roose Bolton took over Winterfell Logging and completed the merger with Baratheon Power. She was insignificant, after that. They didn't need her. _Could have had me beaten to death,_ she thought grimly. _Bet he would have liked that._

He never hit her himself. Not once. That was what he paid his security team for, as far as he was concerned. '_Momma tells me a Gentleman shouldn't strike his Lady,' _he'd explained._ 'Mr. Trant?'_

_Whack, whack._ Two blows, meant to wake her from her fainting spell (though she'd already started to come to, leaning against the wall of muscle that was Clegane, who must have caught her before she hit the ground) and punish her for fainting at the same time, splitting her lip and stinging heavily on her cheeks but it was her heart that was hurting, and her stomach, so full of shame and grief she thought she might vomit on his shoes.

"_Look_ at him!" Joffrey had shrieked, pointing at the thing behind him, illuminated in a pool of light and shimmering black blood.

"I won't," she choked, her throat swelling with tears. "I _won't_."

"Do it, girl," Clegane whispered to her, pushing her forward with the tips of his fingers on her back. His mouth was twitching on the burned side of his face and Sansa could have almost heard the rest of it: _he'll make you look no matter what, so you might as well give him what he wants._

She turned her eyes on the body, then. It didn't look like Papa, like Mr. Edward Stark, sprawled out in his spilled gore, his limbs at unnatural angles. It looked like a set in a haunted house, kitschy, over-the-top, unreal. Something inside her must have responded, though, because she felt tears spilling down her cheeks as she kept her eyes wrenched open, looking on it and trying not to _see._

"You shouldn't cry so much. You're prettier when you smile and laugh," Joffrey remarked, disdainful. And so she tried to smile for him, worried he might have Trant hit her again if she didn't, but Joffrey scowled at her. "Wipe your lip. You look messy."

And then, despite herself, a fury built in her, a fury she now knew as Alayne's, and her eye caught the gun in Trant's holster before her, _right there,_ practically begging her to grab it, click off the safety, point it at his chest. It would be so easy. _You could do it,_ she told herself, _Papa showed you how._ _Do it. Do it right now._ Her feet were cold and clammy in her high-heeled shoes, slick where they were wet with gore, and she reached out her hand, trying to move quickly, to lunge, but instead of her fingers closing around a gun her outstretched arms closed around something else, a great hulking shadow that crouched low before her, _between_ her and the gun. _God, no, please, _she wanted to cry out as Trant shifted out of her reach and she was faced with Clegane's terrible burns, at a level with her eyes, while he fumbled with something in the pocket of his tight leather jacket, the same that hung loose on her frame now.

A pack of tissues.

"Here, girl," he grunted, freeing one and, with a delicacy surprising in such a large man, dabbed the blood welling from her lip. Incredulous, she met his eyes, gunmetal gray and just as dangerous, but at that moment warm and safe, and as she met his gaze something inside her went soft, slack, all the steel and stone and fight drained out of her and she was vulnerable as he held her there, and he _saw _it, she knew he did. How could he not?

Then he stood, pressing the rest of the packet into her hand. "Keep these. You might need them again." He had known, even then, what would happen to her. What would _keep_ happening to her. Everyone had known, (except her) it seemed.

Whether it was the memory that made her shiver or the wind, she did not know.

The headstones stopped looking so similar now, jutting up from the ground at different angles, their profiles casting different shadows, ornamented with arches and crosses and peaks. She digressed from the trail to examine them more closely, they who did not split her up and double her back at herself from everywhere she looked, they who let her exist in herself, both girls inhabiting one woman. The names she found, ghosted her fingers over were archaic, ridiculous: Zaphaniah, Jeddidiah, Orren, Sibalt, Rome. There were hundreds of them, thousands, it seemed, a sea of stone from where she stood, each and every one of them a life that was no more. How close had she come to joining them? She shivered at the thought.

_I've gotten a second chance,_ she reminded herself, relief suddenly washing over her like fresh rain, clean and cool. _All these people dead and long forgotten, but I've got a second chance. I'll die one day, but first, I'll live. _And that meant she had to be different, had to see what everyone else saw, had to know what was coming for her. She had to look out for herself.

And maybe, now, maybe she could.

There was an obelisk erected on the top of a hill, stark white and towering above all the other little markers about. A lonely pall it seemed to cast, and ever tender-hearted, she thought she might keep it company for a minute or two, weaving her way through the rows of tombstones to settle herself on its base. The words of 'Amazing Grace' were carved into it, and as she followed the dip of the letters with her fingers she found herself singing out loud.

"_Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me. I once was lost but now am found, was blind but now I see._" And she had started to think about how truly the words were ringing for her, sighing into the wind, when a voice came from behind her and scared her half to death.

"Sansa."

_I know that voice, that rasp,_ she thought, terror ripping through her, whirling around to find the speaker as fast as she could. Sure enough, there he was, his hands in his pockets and his eyes..._Puppy-dog eyes. _Staring at her intently, he looked like he was hurting.

The Hound, Sandor Clegane.

_What the fuck is __**he**__ doing here? How did he...?! _She put her hand on the taser, her thumb finding the trigger as she pulled it out and held it before her.

But she remembered something. "My name is Alayne," she told him, her voice betraying her, quivering like she was scared. She wasn't. She wouldn't let herself think so.

The tenderness was gone from him then, a sinister chuckle rumbling low in his throat. _Fuck, I forgot how big he was. Is. _"You can't fool me, little bird." And he took a step closer, his face like that of a man who'd gone without water watching the waves of the sea lap at the shore. It spooked her.

She reached out, taser in hand, pulling the trigger as it connected with his hip and withdrawing it quickly, not waiting around to see him hit the ground before she turned, high on adrenaline, and _ran._

_How did he find me, how did he __**find**__ me?! Shit, shit, __**shit**__! I've got to get out of here..._her thoughts were frantic as her heart kept time in her chest, the weight of her boots only keeping her momentum from slowing. She heard his footsteps in pursuit, and she whirled around to see how close he'd gotten. _Close. __**Shit**__!_ She dashed sideways like she used to watch her siblings do in soccer games, weaving into another row of headstones and kicking onward, breathing hard now.

"Sansa, I just want to talk to you," he called out to her, a desperation meant to lull her into a state of trust ringing out in it. Alayne would fall for no such tricks. She laid herself out into a dead sprint, then, finally feeling something other than fear.

Fury. "My name is _Alayne,_" she screamed, as much to herself as to him, _and I won't let him take me alive. Sansa would, but I won't._

The parking lot wasn't far now—the yellow light spilling out from the funeral home cast the grass beneath her toes in a sickly yellow pallor, and the stones she ran between now reflected back the blur of her boots on their shiny faces. She dug for her keys in her pocket, cursing the age of the car and its manual locks. _Don't fall,_ she told herself, her breath coming in panicked gasps now, shuffling down the hill onto the asphalt as quickly as she could, _falling will slow you down, _but he didn't seem to share her opinion, leaping down the hill and almost catching her.

"Little bird, _please_," he called. She was so close, _so close,_ her key ready in her hand for the lock, but he fell on her, knocking the wind out of her lungs and pinning her up against her car, holding her right hand above her head and her left against her side, far from her taser. He twisted her around to face him, his hips digging into her stomach, his chest touching hers as his breath heaved. _No, no, no! Please, God, no, __**please**__!_ "I just want to talk to you," he rasped quietly, calmly. There was something wrong about his voice, something different, but she didn't care to discover what it was just then.

"Let _go_ of me!" she hissed.

"Not until you agree to hear me out." She craned her neck to look up at him, _right_ at him, refusing to show him fear or weakness. She wasn't afraid, wasn't weak, she _wasn't._

"Go to hell," she said as lowly as she could, twisting and fighting in his grip only to feel it tighten around her. He was laughing.

"Been there, done that. Couldn't stick around, though. Someone had to come back and see where the little bird had gotten off to." He was grinning down at her, his eyes hungry and triumphant, showing her his teeth.

_Fuck, who else knows where I am? Did someone sell me out? _"Who sent you, then?" She spat back, still twisting, fighting, but it was no good. He was so much stronger than she was. "I thought you were done with the Lannisters."

"I am. No one sent me, little bird."

That response shocked her. He might have been a brute, but the Hound had never lied to her. She looked up at him in disbelief. _If no one sent him, then..._ "What do you want from me?" she asked, keeping her voice low and tense with aggression.

He looked away from her and swallowed. "I...I wanted to say I was sorry."

Alayne wanted to laugh. "For what?! For stalking me and throwing me up against my car? For fetching me back to whatever hell you've sprung from? You're _sorry?!_" The Hound looked _sheepish,_ though he relinquished none of his grip on her, and might have tried to speak, but she wasn't finished. "_Who sent you?!_" She demanded again. "Do you work for the Tyrells now? Did they send you to find me and kill me?"

She found his gaze again and held it, watching, waiting for his eyes to betray a flicker of _something_ that would tell her what in God's name was going on, who was after her. His eyes were tender, though, maybe even sympathetic. "I'm not...I...Sansa, I—"

"_Alayne,_" she corrected. Even if he _was_ the only one who knew where she was, she wouldn't let him blow her cover _now_, in the unlikely event that she escaped him tonight. _Fuck, where will I go now? He's got my license plate number, I'm sure he does. _

"Alayne," he sighed sadly, "I'm not here to fetch you back anyplace. I just want to talk to you."

"To tell me you're sorry, yeah." She wanted to roll her eyes, but that was impolite. "Well, whatever you're sorry for, you've said it. Now get off me and let me go back into hiding, please," she bit, giving a push against his body again, but he didn't give, not even a little.

"It's not that simple, little bird," he said, almost wistfully, and it hit her then, what was so different about him, his voice, his demeanour: his anger, that tense, ever-quaking energy that had radiated off of him in peals when she'd known him last—where had it gone? Who was this man it left behind?

"Then _what?_ What do you want from me?"

"I want to make it up to you," he said, almost whispering, like it was a secret. "I want to make amends. For not protecting you in LA. That was...That wasn't right. I knew it, but I wasn't man enough to step in and stop it." He hung his head, avoiding her eyes, and sighed. "I want to make it up to you, however I can."

_Well, I can't say I was expecting __**this,**_ she thought, looking at him carefully, at the new softness in him, noting how vulnerable he looked now, though he was big and strong and fearsome as ever. It was all in his eyes, she decided, and the sound of his voice. A sudden pang of sympathy ripped through her, leaving something so strange yet unquestionably true behind in her gut, heart and head.

_Trust._

"You won't hurt me," she said, to herself and to him.

He released her then, looking so like a kicked dog for a moment before crouching until his horrible, burned face was level with hers. _Not so horrible,_ she thought, _not really. I've seen so much worse._ His fingers came to rest on her chin, an echo of a gesture they used to share.

But she was looking at him already, he didn't have to make her.

"No, little bird, I won't hurt you."

A/N: As it happens, Alayne can't stop listening to "Ben Threw" by Of Mice & Men (and neither can I). Don't forget to review, now, lovelies! Keep your eyes peeled for bonus updates this weekend...just sayin'.


	9. Chapter 8

As soon as she was off the main roads, Alayne pulled over and slumped against the steering wheel. She'd been crying for some time, not sobbing or wailing but crying, her spirit dampened by fright, relief, and some strange emptiness wracking her in turns. It felt like her skin was too tight, like her soul was swollen, her nerves frayed and thoughts aflutter, indistinct but for the emotions they spawned from, and a mantra in her thoughts: _that was so close._

So the Hound had come to find her, and he'd succeeded. That, on its own, was a terrifying thought, and indeed, it was terror that seemed to be winning the war of emotions raging inside her, but when she thought about it logically, terror felt all wrong. He had let her go, after all, making no threats, his whole manner affected with a sort of gentle earnestness that could only be described as genuine. In her memory of him he had liked to scare people, but he hadn't tried to scare her—he'd tried to calm her down, get her to listen. All he seemed to want was for her to listen.

But he _had _found her. He had yet to tell her how, but the fact remained: he'd gone looking for Sansa Stark and had not come out empty-handed. How safe was she, then, if she could still be found here? Did she have to leave now, after this?

Her stomach wrenched at the idea—she had come to _like _Montana, despite how completely different it was from any other place she'd ever liked before. She was comfortable here, she realized, more so in her new persona and group of friends than she could recall being in years. And safe, too—not just from whatever immediate dangers she faced, but from the destructive, gnawing little threats she hadn't the strength to extricate herself from in LA. She might be in hiding, a state that veiled her days in a quiet, underlying apprehension, but no longer was she subject to a sadistic boy's whims, or the cruel and critical eye of his mother, or the brutal strength of his 'security' personnel.

The Hound had never hit her, though. He'd even gone out of his way to protect her once, when Joffrey had her stripped and beaten in the boardroom, the Hound had tried to speak up for her, even if he was unsuccessful. And he'd given her his jacket to cover herself with.

The same jacket that hung on her shoulders now. Suddenly, Sansa was seized by a shock of embarrassment for wearing it. _He had to have noticed. He practically lived in this jacket, he's sure to miss it..._

He hadn't said a word about it, though. Hadn't even given it a longing glance or anything, according to her memory...though, he'd certainly given _her _a longing glance when he said '_no, little bird, I won't hurt you'_... (bypassing that possible train of thought, she moved on.)

His words, she hoped, also meant he wouldn't _let_ her be hurt, wouldn't take her back to anyone who would hurt her...and that seemed so far removed from everything he'd said and done for her up to this point. _A Hound will die for you, but never lie to you._ He'd told her he wasn't trying to fetch her back anyplace, and, after consulting his established precedent of complete and often brutal honesty, she found she believed him.

_So what on earth is he doing here?!_

The most reasonable thing to do was ask him, she decided; they had agreed to meet the next day, by the obelisk in the cemetery while she usually had a study period. She would figure out what he wanted, how he'd found her, and do her best to make this intrusion go away as quickly and quietly as possible.

Yes.

After coming to her conclusion, once her cheeks were cool and sticky with salt, she guided the car back onto the road and slowly made her way home. Dad was waiting up for her—he hadn't moved, looked like—and she gave him the sparsest of acknowledgements as she crossed to her side of the house.

"You okay, sweetheart?"

"Just fine Dad."

"You look like you've been crying."

She paused, thinking what it would mean to tell him the truth. Dad would overreact, she was sure—he didn't know the Hound like she did, and would therefore be unable to judge him fairly in this case. He would insist that they pack their things and leave _immediately,_ which she already knew she didn't want to do, or he would drive to town in his car with the pistol in the glove compartment and find the Hound, and that would end poorly for one, or likely both of them.

"I'm allergic to the leaflitter, I think," she said simply, rubbing her nose with the back of her hand, already splattered with enough blood as it was, resolving that she would make no confessions that would spill any more. "It's irritating my eyes."

"Do you want some Claritin?"

"Maybe, yeah."

"I'll bring it to you. You go get ready for bed. You look tired."

"I am," she said truthfully. He gave her a wan little smile as she turned into her hallway.

She was in bed in minutes, curled up on her side, trying to make herself as small as possible. Sansa was all too aware that this was a treacherous line she walked in keeping the Hound's appearance from Petyr, but at the same time there was a sort of thrill in taking control of her own destiny, making her own decisions and determining what would and would not keep her safe.

And the Hound would keep her safe, she decided.

Dad let himself in then, a packet of Claritin and a steaming mug gathered in one hand. Even from across the room she could smell it, floral and soft. _Chammomile._ "I've always found a cup of tea makes my..._allergies_ feel better," he said with a knowing little smirk. He set them down on her bedside table and took a seat on the edge of her bed, pushing her hair back off her forehead, his fingers finding a few black strands and considering them with a little frown. He sighed.

"I'm sorry we had to dye your hair, sweetheart."

"It's okay," she chirped, reaching hungrily for the tea. The warmth eased the ache in her chest too, she found. "I don't really mind it."

"Hmm," he hummed, still fingering her hair delicately. "It was the same color your mom's was, when she was your age."

"Was it?" Alayne asked between sips. Sansa was cringing. "Maybe it's better this way, then."

That seemed to still his movements, but his eyes were still sad. "Maybe."

They were quiet for a minute, Dad stroking his fingers through her hair, the steam coming off her tea tickling her nose.

"It's all catching up to you, isn't it?" he asked finally.

Alayne scoffed, thinking back to a weight _catching up_ with her, throwing her back against her car, one arm held over her head, the other pinned to her side. "You have no idea."

"To be honest, I've been surprised at how well you've been doing, so far."

"Thanks."

"No, really, you've been doing a great job..._adjusting_, sweetheart. But sometimes you'll have days like these when it'll all come rushing back. Don't fight it. Let it happen. Know that when you wake up the next morning it will all feel like a distant memory."

A heavy lingering silence fell between them, so like a thick velvet curtain that Alayne felt as though she could hide behind it.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked her, dipping his hand under the curtain to put it on her shoulder. She shrank away from him reflexively, answering too quickly to be considered polite.

"No."

He sighed and peeled his hand off of her, giving her another wan smile before pressing a kiss into her temple. "Goodnight, sweetheart. It'll be better in the morning."

"I know. Thanks, Dad." He took the Claritin with him on his way out.

She did not sleep, though, not for an hour at least, as her thoughts turned back to the Hound. His burns were worse than she remembered, she thought, the ruined side of his face folded and slick like melting wet clay, but it had never been his scars that had scared her, not really. Not since he'd told her how he got them.

"_Look_ at me," he had snarled at her, tilting her chin up roughly with his huge hand under her jaw, and she had, forcing herself to keep her eyes on his face as he recounted his story to her, but it was not his facial burns she came to see in the end: it was his spiritual ones, the ones that he picked at day in and day out, kept fresh and smoking with his fury, the ones that governed him with a relentless terror and resentment that reduced him to a wild and unpredictable shade of the man he could have been. _Those_ were the burns that had scared her, the ones that made him renounce his humanity, made him call himself "dog." It had never been his face that was so hard to look at—not after she'd become acquainted with its element of grotesque, anyway—it had been his eyes, a window to his unabating, smouldering hatred, his bitter thirst for revenge, his frightful resistance to his own well-being. They seemed like eyes incapable of ever holding love in them, and that, she had thought, was the scariest thing of all.

It wasn't a scary thing, though, she thought currently. It was just sad. So profoundly sad.

It was a restless night for Sansa, full of shallow fitful sleep and dreams, dreadfully vivid, of running, running, running. At five she gave up all pretence of sleep and fetched from the bottom of her underwear drawer a virgin swimsuit, cardboard tag still hanging off the back. Petyr had told her to steer clear of anything that Sansa Stark had loved, which doubtlessly included swimming, but she could only spend so much time out of the pool before it started to wear on her physical and mental composure, and she figured from her state of agitation that she'd hit her limit. In a tote bag she threw her shower things, makeup and an outfit for the day, scrawled a note for Dad on a post-it stuck to the fridge, and headed out, eyes still crusty, red and wild.

She'd expected the local YMCA to be more crowded at this hour of the morning, but to her surprise, she had the pool to herself. The lighting was dim and dingy, yet harshly bright where it fell on the tile of the floor, the great frosted windows at one end were black in the unending night-time, and the whole place stank of stale chlorine and wet dog. Still, it felt like a sanctuary. Her hair slick with chlorine in a braid down her back, Sansa fixed her goggles and dove in straight.

This was a feeling she was used to, enveloped in the gentle and warm resistance of the water, deaf to the world, unable to breathe, her sight aided and restricted simultaneously by the same appendage. A tension inside her was loosened and soothed. She kicked and carved her way forward, taking her breaths in measured little gasps, a creature used to surviving on what little of those necessities like breath she could steal while fighting her way through a world she didn't belong to, elegantly, gracefully, with perfect form. Immediately she fell into a sort of thoughtless rhythm, but even as she lost track of her laps, time only constrained by the ticking of the octagonal clock mounted on the wall, she could not help but feel as though something about her morning was off, missing perhaps. It wasn't until after she'd showered and dressed, still completely alone in the facility except for the middle-aged woman behind the front desk, that she realized she'd never had a pool to herself before, and that she hardly liked it. The thought made her frown, but it was hardly untrue—she'd competed on club teams her whole life until she moved to LA, and even after that, the pool at the fitness center in the Red Keep building was ever far from empty. She paused at the front desk, hair dripping warmth over her shoulder, and startled the woman from her magazine with a question.

"Is the pool usually empty this early in the mornings?"

"You're the first person I've seen go into that pool before sunrise in years," she responded, giving her a suspicious glare before leaning back down to focus on the libel printed on the glossy pages.

That was disheartening to find out, as she didn't want to come swimming alone, but no longer would she stand keeping herself from it. Strange as it was, withholding information of the Hound from Petyr gave her a sense of empowerment that led her to reclaim this passion of Sansa's. _If only I had a pool buddy,_ she thought sadly. But Alayne's friends didn't swim.

Alayne found her eyes watching the hands make their rounds on the clocks in her classrooms, found her pencils tapping, pens clicking, legs bouncing seemingly all of their own accord. She had to consciously keep her fingers out her mouth, her lips out of her teeth, her hair out of her hands. If ever she needed a stress ball, it was then, but she had nothing, she insisted to herself, _nothing_ to be nervous about. _What is __**wrong**__ with me?_

She was getting out of her car when two o' clock finally rolled around; he was already there waiting for her, leaning carelessly against the monument, a styrofoam cup in his hand and another waiting on the base beside the inscription of the hymn. His head snapped up from wherever he was looking as soon as she came into view, meeting her eyes and giving her a shy little smile before casting them away, bringing his cup to his mouth and taking a sip off the straw. _He's just as nervous as I am,_ it occurred to her. That made her feel better, at least.

"Hey," he said finally as she drew close, his voice sounding rough from lack of use, all stiff and strained and raspy.

"Hey," she echoed, tucking her hands into the pockets of his jacket and returning his shy smile with one of her own.

"I got you a milkshake," he announced, jerking his head at the cup left on the monument. "I wasn't sure you'd want one, but I did, so I thought..." he trailed off, looking at his feet, suddenly unable to meet her eye. "You used to like strawberry."

"I did," she affirmed, feeling a wave of sympathy hit her as she watched the burned corner of his mouth go all twitchy. "Is it strawberry?"

He cleared his throat. "Mm-hm."

She couldn't help but flash him a smile. _Why would he remember something like that? _It was sweet of him to think of her, though. She bent to pick it up and sat down on the monument, folding her knees up to her chest bringing it to her mouth, and found it just the right thickness, sweet and creamy and smooth and _cold_. "Mm," she intoned, delighted, as he lumbered down to sit beside her. "This is really good; you didn't drug it or anything, did you?" She joked, chuckling and putting the straw back in her mouth for another sip.

His face fell though, and he seemed to shrink before snarling at her, offended. "_Hell _no I didn't drug it!"

"I didn't think you had, I was just joking with you," she tried to say gently, her insides stinging with shame. "You might have thought that was funny, once upon a time."

"Only because it would have been ironic," he conditioned, defensive, his eyes flicking up to meet hers for a moment. "Glad to see that you've finally started to learn to look out for yourself, though."

"Took me long enough," she scoffed.

He laughed mirthlessly. "I'll drink to that."

They each took a sip off their milkshakes, a moment of silence hovering between them in the golden autumn light. The hardwood trees had come into their peak fall colors, the valley awash with soft yellows and oranges mixed in with the evergreens. He broke the silence.

"So you're not Sansa anymore?"

"No," she said, not sure what else to say.

"Why not?" he rasped, adding as an afterthought, "if I may ask."

_Do I tell him? _ But she'd already started to: "Mace Tyrell's family killed Joffrey at his wedding. They knew I knew. So I went into hiding."

"All by yourself?" He asked, skeptical, worry creeping across his features as he met her eyes again.

"Petyr Baelish helped me. You remember him—he was Mr. Baratheon's lawyer. He did his taxes."

"I remember the little fucker," Sandor growled, closing his mouth around his straw and taking a long pull of his milkshake. It was chocolate, she saw.

"Well," she said shakily, "he's been very helpful. Forged all the documents I needed to set up out here. He's even acting as my father, letting me live in his house and drive his parents' old car and everything. It's all very kind of him."

"Yeah," he laughed, a hollow, rasping sound. "_Kind_." She watched him for a moment, his features hard and eyes glaring at something far away. He opened his mouth to speak but changed his mind and closed it with a sigh, grinding his teeth for a moment or two. "He treating you alright, little bird?"

"Of course," she said. "Why wouldn't he?"

"I knew him longer than you did. Don't forget that."

She almost asked him what he meant by that, but from the sour look on his face, she decided she didn't want to know. Instead, she seized the opportunity to ask some questions of her own. "So where have you been? What have you been doing since we saw each other last?" Alayne might have been more direct, asking first how her safety came to be breached rather than inquiring after _how he'd been_, but this was the first time in a long time Sansa was allowed to be _Sansa_, and she would not relinquish such an integral part of herself as her courtesy, even for the sake of that.

He looked at the ground. "Oh, not too much...digging graves, mostly..." he looked up for a while, away at the trees maybe, silent. His mouth was twitching again. "I caught up with your sister, actually."

She nearly jumped out of her skin. "Arya!? Wha—where is she? Is she okay? What is she doing, is she alr—"

"She can take care of herself, little bird. Or at least she could when I saw her last," he said, leaning over but not touching her, an act of comfort he couldn't bring himself to complete. "I was passing through Phoenix when I ran into her. She was living with a band of punker homeless kids, probably running drugs or something. I..." he sighed heavily, and closed his eyes before he spoke again. "I was feeling _guilty_, little bird, so I kidnapped her, sorta, took her off the streets at least. I meant to take her to Jackson Hole..." Her heart went cold as his focus retreated into the realm of his memory, fearing her heart was about to be broken _again,_ though she thought it ground to dust by now. He jerked back. "We didn't make it, though, before..." he added, and she sighed with relief.

"Thank God," she whimpered, curling herself around her milkshake again.

"God..." he snickered, bringing his eyes to hers before he asked, "You still believe in God after all this, little bird?"

She looked up at him hesitantly, wide-eyed, and saw for once he wasn't trying to mock her. "I have to," she whispered resolutely. "If I don't keep faith that someone, _some_where has all of this under control...if all that's happened to me has just been random acts of violence, I...I don't think I could convince myself to get up in the morning. I'm not worried about if He's real or not, but it's just...my _whole being_ cries out for a God, you know? And I can't just ignore that..."

He seemed to think about that for a moment, his eyes still on hers. "Fair enough," he rasped eventually, and then laughed. "Better than your sister's way of coping, anyway. She blamed _me_ for it all. Like if I'd gotten her there faster, we could have stopped it all from happening."

"That's..." she didn't quite know what to make of that, though it _was_ very Arya of her. "...unfair of her, I guess, but she's never dealt with her emotions well..."

"You don't have to apologize for your sister, little bird. She was good company as any," he grumbled, looking up at her even though he sat so much taller than she did on the stone base of the obelisk. He blinked at her for a moment before speaking again. "I...I wanted to tell you I'm sorry for your loss," he said slowly, deliberately, like he'd never said the words before, like they were new and clumsy on his tongue. He reached over and put a hand on her shoulder, big but so gentle, his thumb swiping back and forth feather-light over the jacket that had been his, once. "I know I don't have to tell you that wasn't right. But if...if I'd been taking _you_ there, I...I would have tried to go in and do what I could."

There was a moment of silence where their gazes met. _Is he trying to say that he would have put himself in harm's way for me? 'A Hound will die for you, but never lie to you'..._ She took a deep breath before she asked, "so...do you know where she is now?"

"I wish I could tell you I did," he said sadly. "Probably hiding, just like you. She's not the type to get herself into trouble she doesn't want to be in." He took a thoughtful sip of his milkshake. "I was trying to get her to Boston, when I...when she got away from me. Didn't like my company, I guess," he snickered darkly to himself, sipping on his milkshake. "So you're back in high school, huh?"

She held the cup in both hands, styrofoam cool and soft against her palms. "For now. Couldn't exactly transfer my credits from USC under cover...though Dad doesn't seem to like the idea of me going somewhere new next year. I thought I was going back to high school so I could go through the application process again, but...I don't know, he seems to have other things in mind."

"Don't doubt that he does, little bird..." he said darkly. "It's a shame you couldn't have stayed at USC, though. From the time I spent there, it seems to me like the perfect school for you."

"You went to USC?"She asked, warily eyeing him, all scarred coarseness, street-smarts, cynical honesty, nothing like the people she had known when she had attended. Maybe the place had changed, since he'd been there. Or maybe _he_ had.

"Yeah," he said with a sigh. "I had a boxing scholarship. Full ride." He looked at her then, eye contact unflinching for a long moment before he broke it and nodded, eyes suddenly far away, worrying the bad side of his mouth and taking a pull off his milkshake. "I didn't stay, though, if that's what you're wondering."

"Not exactly. Why'd you leave?"

"Why'd they kick me out, you mean?" he laughed harshly. "Violated the terms of my scholarship. Apparently I wasn't supposed to be making any money fighting on the side...Not that the money was why I was fighting."

There was another moment of quiet, his eyes glazed over with memory, before she asked, "Why _were_ you fighting?"

"So many questions, little bird. Didn't your mother ever teach you it was rude to interrogate people?"

"I'm not that girl anymore," Alayne insisted firmly, refusing to let her flutter of shame show through. _I'll show you an interrogation you great ugly brute_...(But that thought was unkind.) "Why were you fighting?"

"Same reason I've always fought. I was angry. I _liked_ being angry. I'd get drunk and want to hit somebody. The college circuit frowned upon drinking before fights, though. Shame, that. Booze made me hit harder."

She scoffed at him. "I doubt that."

He laughed over his cup. "Oh? And why's that, little bird?"

"Alcohol is a depressant. It slows everything down, your body, your reaction times..." but he was chuckling lowly in his chest.

"Y'know what I'm hearing right now?" he leaned in close to her ear, as if to whisper, sendeing treacherous shivers down her spine. "_Chirp-chirp-chirp._" He drew back, grinning at his own joke. "You're a little bird, still, repeating back all the things you've been taught to say. Next you're going to tell me I shouldn't drink and drive, I'll bet."

"You shouldn't!" Sansa shrieked. "You'll drive into the other lane and kill someone—especially in that great big car of yours."

He chuckled, meeting her eyes with a flicker of some dark amusement in his. "Nice to know you're so concerned for my safety, pretty bird. Just because you insisted, I'll never do it again."

He was mocking her, she realized, and tripped over her words in her ire. "Do you, like, _regularly_ drive drunk or something?"

"Not regularly. Never regularly. And never again, now," he said with a smirk, leaning back against the monument, as if self-assured. _I know better, though,_ she told herself.

"Oh, because I _chirped_ at you and you decided to _listen_?" She taunted, letting Alayne break through for another moment.

"Because I'm in Alcoholics Anonymous, Sansa," he said, suddenly serious, his rasp laced with offence. "I've been sober for almost a year now."

"Oh," she said, feeling small, not really sure what else to say. "Sorry, I...forgot."

"No you didn't. I hadn't told you, yet." He returned his attention to his milkshake, and apparently found it empty. "That's why I'm here, kind of. Step nine. I'm trying to make amends to you."

"Oh," she said, feeling even smaller. (She wanted to believe he'd come back for her, but _that sounds like some stupid fairytale,_ she told herself now, _and fairytales aren't real._) "I'm glad you're getting clean," she eventually managed to squeak. He laughed harshly.

"Are you now, little bird?" he taunted. She remained nonplussed.

"Yes," she said pointedly, plucking up her courage, "I mean it. I'm not just being polite. The way you..._were..._ in LA, it was going to kill you before long."

"I could say the same for you, little bird."

"You could, and you'd be right. But I don't live like that anymore." Bold as her words were she was frightening herself with her honesty, and so she stared at her feet, cased in her big chunky boots, a vague memory of taupe patent-leather heels, studded with garnets. No, _blood._

"So," she started, trying to sound chipper and lighten the mood. "Are you just up here for a couple of days, or what?"

He laughed. "The lease on my house lasts longer than _that_, I think."

"You rented a house?!" She cried, incredulous.

"Yeah. The brother running my program called in a favour, supposedly. Fixed me up with it for cheap."

"You didn't have to do that," she said meekly. "I don't want to be keeping you from your program or anything."

"I'd gotten everything out of it I was gonna get, little bird. It isn't really a twelve-step program if you don't believe in God." He ground his teeth for a second, looking down at his empty milkshake disdainfully. "Got me sober anyway, God or no."

"Still, I...I would have just forgiven you, if you'd asked."

"I don't want you to _give_ me your forgiveness, pretty bird, I want to _earn_ it," he rasped, meeting her eyes, looking for a moment like he might reach out to her face, then deciding against it. "And making up for all the things I let happen to you is gonna take a while."

She didn't have to tell him he was right. He knew. The silence stretched for a long moment or two.

"Speaking of which, have you thought of anything I can do to make it up to you, yet? To start, anyway; I know there'll be a lot..." he trailed off, looking at the ground, suddenly sheepish.

"Not yet...Not really..." she said, looking at the yellowed grass beneath her feet, trying to pluck her courage up before asking, "just...Don't leave me again? Like last time?"

"...Little bird..." he whispered to himself though she heard him still, something like pain leaking into his voice. He swallowed and reached out, stopping halfway, his hand hovering awkwardly over hers, before she made the slightest movement towards him and he closed in on it gently, covering her little hand in his. "I won't."

"Okay," she squeaked, smiling weakly, but smiling.

"Okay," he agreed, and lifted his hand.

She could still feel the rough warmth of his touch lingering on her knuckles and fingers, and though the chill of the afternoon tried to drive it away, he ghosted over her skin. _Now,_ she thought.

"So...How _did_ you find me?"

He sighed heavily. "I was afraid you would ask me that, little bird...The truth is that I don't really know. The guy who ran my program gave me an envelope that had a lease for this house, a job application for this cemetery and a picture of you in it. I was on the highway less than ten minutes later."

_Well isn't __**that**__ distressing,_ she thought with a heavy sigh. "You've got _no idea _how I got found out?"

"No, none," he groaned, drawing a hand over his face before straightening up. "I can see if I can find that out for you, though."

"Please do," she spat sulkily, "because however it happened, it can't happen again. I'm lucky it was only you coming for me this time," she said, surprising herself with her honesty. "I've gotten attached to this place. It's good for me, I think."

"You're not going to hear me arguing with you, little bird," he chuckled.

"I just...I'd hate to have to leave it, y'know? If I suddenly wasn't safe here anymore..."

She could feel him looking at her, trying to form words, though her own eyes were trained on her knees.

"I...I could keep you safe, you know," he rasped. "If you were scared about that. If you'd let me..."

She turned to him, her smile fragile and full of sympathy, but he'd retracted inside of himself, looking at his hands or the ground or the trees and oh, so vulnerable.

"Thanks, but...I mean, forgive me, but you're kind of the immediate danger here," Alayne said. He clenched his jaw and exhaled sharply, looking at her feet intently.

"You think I'm dangerous?" He'd never sounded so hurt, she thought.

"In general? Yeah."

"What about for _you,_ Sansa? Do you think I'm a danger to _you_?" He managed to look in her eyes then, and he had _puppy-dog eyes,_ just like when she'd first seen him the night before. She thought carefully, remembering all the conclusions she'd come to, asking herself the same question.

She swallowed hard, steeling her resolve. "No."

But he still flinched. "You're just saying that," he snarled. "Don't lie. You're still scared of me."

"I'm _not,_" she insisted, but he was turning away from her. She reached out to grab a massive shoulder. "Sandor, _look at me."_

He turned slowly, looking worse for the wear, sulking petulantly but not _angrily, _like she expected him to be.

"I know that you won't hurt me," she said carefully, his gray eyes seeming to swell and take over all her sight. "I know you won't let anyone else hurt me anymore, and I know you're trying to make up for all the times you did."

"But you're still scared," he finished, despondent.

"Not scared. Intimidated," she insisted, "but not scared. I mean—let's face it—you're not exactly the giant teddy-bear type, are you?"

He snorted. "Guess not."

"See? It's only fair that I'm intimidated. I'm only a _little bird_ in the company of a great big _Hound_," she joked, some instinct making her tuck a lock of his hair behind his ear, making his eyes flick to hers instantly. "If I wasn't intimidated, you'd think I was reckless and crazy."

"I'm starting to think you're reckless and crazy anyway," he said, taking her wrist between his thumb and forefinger and giving it back to her. "But I'm sorry I took offense, little bird."

"Apology accepted, Hound," she said, giving him a crooked, triumphant smile. "Even if I don't need a guard-dog, there are other ways you can 'make it up to me'..." An idea came to her then. "You could start by being my swimming buddy."

He crooked an eyebrow at her. "Swimming buddy?"

"Yeah. I've decided to start swimming in the mornings before school, but the lady at the Y says the pool is always empty then. I don't like swimming alone."

But he was chuckling darkly, shaking his head. "I let Boris Blount rip your clothes off in front of the whole fucking boardroom and knock the wind out of you, and you want me to be your _swimming buddy?_"

She flinched at the memory, but she had practice keeping her composure. Alayne shrugged. "Why not? It's a start, am I right?"

As hard as he was trying to look skeptical, she could see him smiling. "I'm afraid I don't know how to swim, little bird."

"That's no problem. I'm happy to teach you...if you'll agree to come, that is."

He sighed, the burned corner of his mouth twitching as he smiled. "As if I would deny you anything," he said, almost too lowly for her to hear. "I'll be there."

"Great. How about six o'clock? We'll start with the doggy paddle," she laughed, tapping him on the arm.

And for once, out of nothing but genuine amusement, the Hound laughed.

A/N: Sorry about the bonus updates guys. I came into this weekend with a completely different plan for this fiction than I walked out of it with. Take comfort in knowing, though, that in the end it is going to make so much more sense than it would have otherwise.


	10. Chapter 9

_Well __**that **__went well..._ he thought sullenly, draping himself with a groan over the steering wheel. Every possible way he could have made an ass of himself, he'd done it: shoving her hand away from his face, mistaking what she meant when she'd said he was "kind of the immediate danger here," bringing up the boardroom when she asked him to be her swimming buddy. "Her swimming buddy..." he scoffed, shaking his head. She was always testing him, the little bird. He hadn't been in a pool since before he burned...

Guilt and shame clung to him like second-hand smoke to second-hand clothes for how he'd snapped at her, sneered at her, mocked her as he always had, but even still she'd been patient, kind, s_weet_ with him, even. And that moment (swollen in his chest and throat, trying to choke his heart to a stop) when she'd tucked his hair behind his ear, the same way he'd always wanted to do to_ her_...and the delicate scent of her perfume—or was it her skin that smelled so clean and sweet?—stuck in his head like a line in a song, the sort that hooked you, threatened to tear you open and spill you, verify you in the eyes of some high power. That was how she smelled: like truth, and kindness and beauty and forgiveness, like all those good and virtuous things that his life sorely lacked..._Christ _but he wanted her for himself, not her body so much as her being, nor her heart so much as her smile. _I need a drink...just one, a single fucking drink._ "SHUT _UP_!" he shouted at himself, slamming his fist into the dashboard and, upon hearing a little creak from where his fist hit, froze and made sure he did not, in fact, put a hole through his Cadillac. _Fuck me_, he thought with a sigh of ashamed relief. _If I can't have a drink, I can have another fucking milkshake, at least._

And so Sandor Clegane paid his second visit to Dairy Queen in as many hours, and earned an entirely new sort of funny look from the drive-through staff.

"Suck my dick, judgemental bastards," he snarled into his milkshake as he pulled away from the restaurant, wishing he'd found himself in the Montana of yore, devoid of speed limits on the state highways. What he wouldn't give to put Stranger's pedal to the floor and watch the world fly by him in a blur. But hadn't he just promised the little bird he wouldn't drive recklessly anymore? Well, he'd promised not to drive _drunk, _but wasn't it the same principle?

Obeying traffic laws, Sandor drove broodingly to Target, nursing his milkshake and thinking about the inevitabilities of tomorrow that he now, with loathing, sought to outfit himself for. _As if I could deny you anything, _he had said. How awfully true that was.

Thoughts of swimming took him back, a certain cold bitterness filling him up as was its custom. The community pool in their suburban development had been squarely sub-par, a relic from the affluence of the 1950's, now grimy, cracked and faded, the pool itself an unnatural turquoise, neon-bright in sharp contrast to the dull gray chain-link fence and the red clay waste beyond that stood for some poor bastard's back yard. Meatsmoke hung over the place like smog from the snack shop that sold store-brand hot dogs and greasy hamburgers, charred black and served with watery ketchup. Visits to the pool had been a treat for him those few summers, before, getting to escape the lonely play of his house and go splash around in the water with the other kids. But he wasn't allowed in the water, that first summer of the rest of his life—the doctor was still worried about infection, and his babysitter watched him like a hawk—but because he could tell how miserable it made him, sitting there exposed for the whole neighbourhood to stop and stare at, Greg insisted on going every day, and nobody ever denied the boy anything, lest they should tempt one of his moods. How many hours had he spent brooding under those faded umbrellas, looking out past the gray chain-link fence with a quiet rage so powerful it scared him, wishing everyone would _look away_, wishing every day he could just _go home,_ wishing the babysitter would get distracted by something so she wouldn't notice if he wandered off...he could find his way back home, he knew, and didn't imagine it would matter if he couldn't.

He'd refused to go near pools ever since, his skin crawling at the thought of so many eyes combing over him, inspecting him, never looking at _him_ but at his burns, like he was some sort of scientific specimen. He was, he guessed—an exhibit of a boy who'd been wronged, on whom the whole structure of justice had been inverted, whose idea of family had been turned inside-out. And so young, too...but nobody looked long enough to see that. All they saw was a freak.

Sure, the burning itself had been a terrible pain that his brother inflicted on him, but it was the years of solitary humiliation Greg had gotten out of it afterward that had scarred him the deepest, and the pool had been the first of many trials Greg would put him through. The pool was Greg's territory...

...But now it was the little bird's, and he had an attitude adjustment to make.

Eyes were flickering to him and away, to him and away as he strode through the Target, making for the swimwear section, where racks of synthetic shorts in bright colors and patterns awaited his scrutiny. He cast his eyes over the lot, scowling, dismayed to find that the only pair likely to fit him was bright yellow with black panelling on the sides, before stalking off towards the fitting rooms and letting himself into a stall, dimly hopeful that they would serve. It was a cramped fit within, his head bumping against the wall as he pulled his jeans off and bent to step into the swim trunks, tight around his hips but hanging more loosely to about six inches above his knee. He could see the tail end of his ugly pink knife-scar peeking out from underneath one leg, and a cold weight like dread settled in his stomach when he realized that whatever he was about to buy would be the only article of clothing he'd be wearing in the little bird's presence tomorrow. The rest of him would be bared to her, whatever the swim trunks didn't cover, knotted scars and burns, hairy chest and all.

_Look at me, I always told her...be careful what you wish for, eh dog?_

But he'd promised her he would be there, and Sandor was a man of his word.

_That wasn't the only thing she made you promise,_ he reminded himself, drawing up to the register and paying for the swim trunks. _How fucking stupid do you have to be to just __**forget to ask**__ the Elder Brother how he found her? For Chrissake, dog..._He knew that wasn't all of it, though. Because truth be told, it didn't matter to him how he'd come to find her, or who else knew she was here; she was back in his life, and nobody, _nobody,_ would take her away from him now.

But he'd fetch back his answers for her, because he was an obedient Hound, after all.

'_You ain't no __**hound-dog**__; you a man, same as me.'_

_Am I, Brother?_ he asked himself now, and found himself hoping the Elder Brother had been wrong. _I could never be her man, but maybe, if I could be her dog, I could follow her around forever. I could be happy with that..._That was all he wanted, really—to be her shadow, ever trailing after her beauty, her grace, secretly hoping that some of it would rub off on him, make him better. Make him worthy.

_You're pathetic._

He wanted to argue with himself, he did. He just couldn't, was all, and that only made him feel worse.

He was back at his house soon enough, Spartan little establishment as it was. In the entirety of the house, all six rooms of it, there were five total pieces of furniture, all rescued from the street or hauled in from the Salvation Army. He had a little square table and two vinyl folding chairs, a soggy, low-slung, moth-eaten couch and a bed, replete with a mismatching and mysteriously stained quilt and pillow set. The venetian blinds in all the windows were all dented and dinged in some way or another, and had probably been drawn for quite some time, he deduced from the thick carpet of dust on them. The showerhead bled rust down the yellow plastic shower interior and the wallpaper in the bathroom bubbled away from the wall at its seams and near the dark wood crown molding that, like the blinds, was also pockmarked with dents and nicks. It was all more than he'd asked for, though, and more than he'd ever had.

He picked up his phone and dialled the Louisiana number, and it rang twice before a gravelly, soulful voice greeted him. "Brother Sandor! I was startin' to wonder whether you'd gone and died on me, son! Been nigh-on six days since I hear from you last."

"Hey Brother," he rasped, smiling into the phone. "Sorry, I've been a bit distracted."

"I'll say so! Have you found her yet, my man?"

"Yeah, just last night."

"Mmm," the Elder Brother intoned. "And? How is she?"

"Fuckin'...great. I mean..._shit,_ it's just so good to _see _her."

"Mm-hmm. I know the sound 'o that voice. Know what it means fo' a man..." he heard the Brother sigh on the other end. "Did she come a-rushin' into yo' arms, then, brother Sandor?"

He winced, the burned side of his mouth twitching. "No...I mean, that's never how it was between us, anyway."

"That's good, then. It ain't no fun when they throw theyselves atcha. Every brother knows that if a lady gone an' thrown herself at yo' sorry ass, she can go an' throw herself at any other brother who goes walkin' by. She sounds like she got integrity—that ain't no common thing, nowadays."

Sandor felt like he'd been hit in the gut, even though he knew the brother didn't mean anything by it. "She's _nineteen,_ brother," he sighed, speaking as much to himself as the man on the phone. "It's not like that. I'm not..._after_ her, like that."

The Elder Brother was chuckling on the other end of the phone. "And you says you not a lyin' man." He heard him sigh. Sandor was getting tired of this conversation, though he should have seen it coming, really. "Well, I been prayin' fo' you, brother Sandor. How you been gettin' on?"

"Uhh, fine, I guess. It's actually about Sansa, that I called," he rushed. "How was did you get that envelope? Who gave it to you? How did he find her?"

The man hummed on the other end. "Well," the Elder Brother began. "I'm glad you aksed, son, but I'm 'fraid I can't say right now."

Sandor hit his fist against the wall—not _so_ hard, he thought, but the drywall still creaked in protest. "Brother, _please,_ she's—"

"She hidin' from a bunch o' dangerous people n' she worried about her safety. An' that's fair. Fact o' the matter is, ain't nobody jus' gon' happen upon them pictures o' her, an' ain't no other way nobody gon' find her out there. If she needed t' be brought some other place t' be safe, brother, I'da told you where to take her. But y'all safe out west, so y'all stay put 'till I call on you an' tell you otherwise."

Sandor sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Is there _nothing _you can tell me that I can pass along to her to assure her?"

"You can tell her the people who gone an' found her were very skilled, an' they gone and erased all they found 'bout her. Tell her she got God lookin' out for her, ain't nobody tryin' to hurt her."

Sandor still thought that was weak, though—if he were in her position, he'd be disappointed with that.

"After all, brother Sandor, if we meant t' be preyin' on the likes of her, we ain't like to send her a protector, now is we?"

He didn't have an argument for that—it brooked none. It was too true.

The fire dreams came for him again that night, but waking offered little relief. He was off to make a fool of himself, in front of _her,_ of all people. _A Hound playing in a birdbath,_ he thought to himself, scowling. _That's exactly what it'll look like. _Though he'd bought the biggest swim trunks they'd carried, they still looked like boy's clothes on him, big hairy oaf that he was. What woman, especially one as delusively idealistic as the little bird was, would subject herself to his half-naked body, so sprent with scars and burns that the hideousness of his face just blended in? He shook his head—then again, she _had_ been married to the only man in the world uglier than him, and so maybe...but that only made him angrier, returning to his guilt on that count with a cold vengeance. Why couldn't she have asked him to hurt that whoring bastard dwarf for her, for all the twisted, perverted things he must have done to her? (Sandor shuddered to think of them, having stomached more than enough of her torture in his lifetime at Joffrey's hands alone.) _That_ would be more fitting, he figured—make his amends in a realm in which he'd wronged her, avenge some of the hurt his neglect had caused her—more fitting than _this,_ he thought, pulling a clean shirt over his body as if to hide it from her.

_That shouldn't matter,_ another voice inside him pleaded, _it isn't about how it will look, about letting her look at you, it isn't about her at all—you're making amends to her __**for yourself**__—because you know what it feels like to live knowing you haven't._ And he was sick of that. He really was.

Her brown-gray Mercedes was already parked by the time he arrived, pulling into the cracked parking space beside her. He snatched his towel off of the passenger's seat and wadded it up in his big hand, trying not to limp on his stiff leg and hoping that the bathing suit wouldn't go out of its way to embarrass him. He signed in, ignoring the staring of the woman behind the desk, and found his way to the pool.

The little bird was already filling the room with the sounds of her splashing, her dark shape trailing down one of the lanes with a smooth and effortless speed. In no rush to disrobe and expose himself to her he sat himself down on a long plastic bench, watching her part the water with her hands, kicking a furious stream of white bubbles behind her. A hopeful thought seized him that this might just be enough for her, his quiet company on the bench, the fact of him being in the room. _But if it's not, you know you'll do it. Anything to get closer to her._ He grit his teeth and told himself it wasn't worth his dread.

She made another lap down and back before she stopped to rest, pulling herself halfway out of the water, resting her arms on the edge of the pool facing the big black windows, her little chest heaving with her ragged breaths, her black hair in a straight wet braid down her back.

"Who knew the little bird could fly so fast under water?"

He saw her jump, whip around and sigh with relief. _Only me, little bird_, he wanted to say, but she could see that. It had _relieved_ her. _Don't get too excited, dog; remember who she's running from._ She pulled her little blue goggles down off her forehead and disappeared under the water, surfacing again not far from where he sat, and pulled herself out of the water again.

This was a sight his self-restraint could have done without, the little bird all wet and flushed, dark blue swimsuit clinging tight to her body and all her little curves, the thin rivulets of water trickling over them adding further emphasis, further torture to her beauty. And the way she was _smiling _at him, her blue eyes bright in her pink little face...if there was a God, he'd have cursed him for making things so perfect and unattainable.

"Good morning sir!" she chirped happily, a spring in her step as she made her way towards him. _It's a better morning than you know, little bird. _ "Are you ready to swim?"

His heart sank a little. "I was kind of just hoping I could watch, actually."

She folded her arms across her chest, pushing her tits up and closer together. He forced himself not to look. "You're wearing swim trunks and you brought a towel with you. Seriously, Sandor, I wasn't born yesterday."

Groping for a retort he stuttered, but she quirked an eyebrow at him, daring him for the response he didn't have, and he swallowed, assenting, and stood. It was easier to look at her chest now, towering over her, without making it obvious. He must have lingered there, though, making an ass of himself as he gazed at her wet and beautiful little form, because she spoke again.

"...Are you gonna get changed?"

"Hm?"

"Is everything alright, Sandor? You're being weird..." she said, furrowing her brow at him.

"What? Oh, uhh...yeah, just...didn't sleep well, is all. That, and I'm pretty sure I'm going to drown this morning, so..."

She rolled her eyes and, to his dismay, dropped her arms. "Oh come _on_. You're not going to drown. The water in the shallow end will barely come up to your ribs. And even if you _did _somehow manage to start drowning yourself, I'm a lifeguard. So you've got nothing to worry about." He let the image of the pretty bird giving him mouth-to-mouth flood his mind for a second, feeling the blood in his neck warm. _Cut it out, dog, you're going to embarrass yourself._ "Now go get changed and wet your hair—the chlorine's bad for it."

When he didn't move, she urged "go on," with a little shove, her cool, wet fingertips sending shocks of heat through his shirt from where they landed. "I'll wait."

As soon as he was safe in the locker room he let himself shudder. _Fucking hell._ He peeled his shirt off over his shoulders and stepped carefully out of his shoes. There was a mirror, fogged and cracked with age, but still it reminded him of just how monstrous he looked, between the burn scars on his face and arm, all the other little knots of pale pink flesh that stood testament to other times he'd been breached, and the silhouette of his form itself, all bulky, bulging hard muscle, dusted with black hair that rendered him animalistic and hideous. _If I were a little bird, I'd be intimidated too,_ he sighed, defeated. But even amid his shyness and shame his body reacted boldly to hers, the flush in his face and the bulge in his swim trunks threatening to betray any air of indifference he might have still retained after moving hundreds of miles just to be near enough to "make amends" to her. The water that belched from the showerhead was frigid and shocking, just what he needed to cool his heating blood.

When he emerged, dripping in his own right, it was his shyness that possessed him. He could feel her eyes on him, coming to understand his ugliness anew, and he wanted to run, to dash back into the locker room and reclaim his shirt...but it was too late, she'd seen. What good would it do now? He swallowed, and took a quick glance at her face—she was looking alright, but _that_ certainly wasn't the expression he was expecting her to wear, mouth slack but for a hint of a smile at the corners, eyes wide and..._dark._

He wasn't so shy anymore, he found.

"Sit," she ordered, clearing her throat and snapping herself from the daze he'd caught her in, a bottle of something in her hand. She pointed at the bench he had been watching her from, and like the good dog he was, he sat before her. She squeezed a bit of whatever was in the bottle into her hand, hitting him with a rush of the smell of her shampoo.

"What are you doing?" he questioned, right before the little bird pushed her hands into his hair and worked the stuff through it deftly, her little bird-claws scratching gently against his scalp and the nape of his neck. He had to tense himself rigid to keep himself from shivering in delight. _There goes my cold shower..._

"It's just conditioner. It's going to put another barrier between your hair and the chemicals in the water. Bring some of your own tomorrow, 'kay?"

"Conditioner?" he asked, tipping his head back to look at her.

"Yeah. You know. The stuff you use after you shampoo?"

"I've only ever used shampoo, little bird, I don't know what you're talking about."

She rolled her eyes. "_Boys,_" she groaned to herself, unable to keep the hint of a smile off her lips. "I guess I can bring extra for you, if you don't have any."

"Thanks," he choked. For a single quiet moment he indulged himself, floating on the scent of her shampoo and the feeling of her fingers in his hair before he rasped, "so I went ahead and asked the director of my program about how he found you," he swallowed. "But I don't think you're going to like what he told me."

She furrowed her brow. "Why not?"

"He didn't tell me much."

She gave a snort of humourless laughter. "You're probably right, then. What _did_ he say?"

"Just that the people who found you were 'very skilled' and erased any trace of you they found...the things that led them here, I guess." The little bird was frowning, but still working her hands over his scalp. "He said you were safe here, and if that ever came to pass, he would let me know so I could get you out. It sounded like he had a plan."

"I'm so _sick_ of being part of other people's plans..." she muttered sourly, pulling lightly on his hair. "He didn't tell you anything about this plan, did he?"

"Only that he'll let us know when we're needed, and that he's trying to keep us safe until then," he sighed. "I know this all sounds really cryptic and suspicious, and it seems he isn't quite the humble preacher he appears to be, but _I trust him,_ little bird, like I've never trusted anyone before." _Anyone but you,_ he hadn't the courage to say. "He told me God was watching over you," he almost whispered, debating whether or not to tell her the next part, deciding he was feeling bold. "He said if he had been trying to hurt you he wouldn't have sent you a protector."

Her hands froze and she drifted before his face, then, her eyes meeting his, wide and serious and intent, as if to sort out some unspoken truth that could only be conveyed through the eyes. She lingered there for a moment, her thumb stroking his temple absently, before she pursed her lips and nodded. It was a good enough explanation for her.

"Well, if that's all we've got, no use crying over it. Come on," she said, pulling her fingers out of his hair and making for the pool. Sandor let his eyes roam once over her body before he forced himself to follow her, down a rickety metal ladder into the warmth of the water.

She was right—the water came to just under his chest, and he had to bend his knees to immerse himself to the shoulders.

"You can't swim at all?" she ascertained.

"Not at all."

"Not even a little bit?"

"If I picked up my legs right now I would drown, little bird."

"Well, give it a try. We'll see how your instincts fare for you," she insisted. "Lean forward and let the water hold you up. Put out your arms. That's ri—no, _come on_!" He rocked back onto his feet, feeling uncertain and off-balance in the water, stupidly, desperately not wanting to make a fool of himself. "Here, I'll spot you," she said, holding her arms out before him. "You can't fall in. I won't let you."

"Oh, and you're going to catch me, are you?" he snarled, trying to conceal his fear. "All that would do is drag you down with me." She quirked an eyebrow at him, giving him a wicked little smile.

"Wanna bet?" and then there was a splash, and suddenly he was on his back, one tiny little bird arm under his shoulders, the other tucked under his knees, all but his face and feet submerged in the water. It was all he could do not to shriek like a girl, opting to struggle and shout expletives instead, but the little bird held him fast, pushing out towards the deep end of the water, bouncing up and down as the water got closer to his face.

"Put me _down,_ little bird."

"Nope. I've got to prove a point," she said, but dropped him anyway, letting him splash into the water with a jolt of dread before her little arm came up, crossing over his right shoulder and tucking under his left armpit, hauling him up against her with a strength she shouldn't have, stroking with her free arm to carry them further out into the pool despite his struggles. "I've got you, don't worry," she said, sounding so calm in contrast to his panic, which would have ruled his thoughts had it not been _her___pressed up against his back, her arm braced across his chest, if it hadn't been _her_ murmuring comforts into his ear, so close he could almost feel her lips on his neck. _Goddamn I hope these swim trunks are loose enough._ "You're not going to fall in."

"Alright! Alright, I'm not going to fall in," he repeated grudgingly, wanting the exercise to end only for the sake of his dignity, "can we go back to the shallow end now?"

"Oh, what, is _the Hound_ afraid of a little water?"

"Not afraid," he growled, exasperated. "I just don't feel like _dying,_ is all."

She gave a chirp of laughter, a little bird-song amplified in the cavity of the room, and said "put your feet down, Sandor." And sure enough, he could still stand here, water lapping against his collarbone when he stood up straight. She left her arm draped over his shoulder, though, clinging to him now, and let _him_ drag _her_ back to the shallow end, giggling as he muttered curses. He resisted thoughts of all the other places he'd like to drag her, with her arms braced across his chest, dimly aware of his lack of embarrassment through the fog of his bliss.

"Okay. Fine. You win. I'm not going to drown," he rasped, shrugging her arm from his shoulders, the cold air shocking his skin when she was gone. She floated out before him again, nymph-like, her wicked smile resuming its thought-clouding possession of her expression for a moment before she turned more serious and started to talk (presumably about swimming) but he found he couldn't listen yet, and paid back her stunt with a quick splash in the face. She gasped, trying to keep the smile off her face and gloriously, brilliantly failing.

He was awestruck by the irony of it—in trying to get clean he'd ended up high on the headiest drug of all: her smile. She was the only person in this world important enough to need forgiveness from, but of all the things she could have asked him to do to make it up to her, _this_ was what she'd asked of him. To play with her in the water, race her down the pool, let her put her arms around him and her fingers in his hair. Let him look at her. Let her look at him. _What did I ever do to deserve such a gentle pardon as hers?_ He wondered to himself, as she gave the water a good slap and sent it flying into his face, returning the splash he'd just given her. _When did my luck decide to change?_

Maybe it had been when the Elder Brother found him nearly dead in his car, or the day he'd been sent off to find her. Maybe it had been after she realized he wouldn't hurt her. Or maybe it had been today, the first time he got back in the water since he burned.

He didn't know—she flashed him another wicked smile and darted her leg out, knocking him off balance back into the water, but not before he could loop an arm around her waist and drag her with him, squealing—

He didn't care.


	11. Meanwhile

**MEANWHILE...**

**October 6****th****, 2012**

Stan exhaled sharply, grinding his teeth audibly from the back seat, sitting up ramrod-straight with his hands clasped over his crossed knee. "It doesn't put you off _even a little bit_ that these informants of yours wouldn't tell you what they had to inform on?" He snapped again, probably the ninth time he'd brought it up since they got on the plane in D.C. that morning.

Dave was patient behind the wheel, ready as ever to reassure him, but it was the Russian woman who responded first.

"Honestly, Stan, I'm hurt you would doubt me. Varys is an old friend of mine; I trust him completely. If he says he's got something of interest to us, then he's got something of interest to us," she huffed, flipping her unnaturally red hair over her left shoulder, where it evanesced into her blazer, the same shade of red (he'd never seen her wear any other color, it seemed). He caught a hit of her perfume too, that strange Russian blend smelling too strongly of campfire smoke to be pleasant. "And besides, you're not even supposed to be here."

Stan bristled, but had no response. The Red could be cryptic, sometimes, but she was always honest with him, just like Dave was. That was why Stan had picked them, he figured—it would have been Stan's taskforce if not for the fact of it being his brother's company they were investigating and all, and the conflict of interest therein. And so it'd fallen to Dave to head, with Stan playing backseat driver—in more ways than one, Dave found since they'd left the New Orleans airport in their rental car.

"Is the air conditioning broken or something? I feel like I'm getting heatstroke." Stan Baratheon was not one for relinquishing control of anything, and the necessary arrangement of the taskforce had him out-of-sorts, which left him crankier than Dave's youngest son, his namesake, after missing a nap.

"You're not getting heatstroke, Stan. It's October," Dave insisted flatly. "But we can turn it on if you want. Just remember we'll use more gas that way."

"For Chrissake," he grumbled, "would you step on it, then, Seaworth? We haven't even gotten there yet, and I'm already looking forward to getting out of this hellhole...the air feels _sticky_, can't you feel it?"

"Just be glad we're not back in Georgia," Dave said, resisting the urge to snicker. "You want sticky air, Augusta'll show you what-for."

Melissa just shook her head, chuckling, and looked out the window.

They couldn't be far now, rolling off the bridge onto the last stretch of land he could see on the horizon. To his right was the Gulf of Mexico, and to his left, the barrier islands of Louisiana. This was the Grand Isle, and they were on their way to the Quiet Isle Methodist Church, where they had arranged to meet their informants for coffee. Dave did his best to mask his own uncertainty—Stan could say whatever he wanted to his Russian pet and it would brook no consequences, but if _Dave_ were to question her...well, even if he was the head of this taskforce in name, he had worried it would be the Red who would have more power in the end. And so far, he had been right.

It was a modest little church, red-brick and well-tended, outfitted with plain wood crosses and those clumsy, basic quilts of the same sort that hung on the walls of his son's preschool. He could see a gardener at work out back, a remarkably large man, his long black hair tied back at the nape of his neck, apparently digging something. A grave, might have been.

Two men met them within, as different from one another as they could be. The bald one in the fine suit that reeked of lavender was obviously the other Russian—Varys, his name was—which made the ebon-skinned man with the easy smile and his shirtsleeves rolled up the Elder Brother of the parish, about as American as you could get. He warmly greeted Stan and Dave while Melissa and her friend were exchanging pleasantries in their native tongue, and once all the introductions had been made, led them into a sparse sort of sitting room that might have smelled of detergent and coffee if the two Russians hadn't made it smell so strongly of lavender and campfire. He took a seat beside Stan, their backs to the door.

"Now's I come t' understand it, this yo' brother's company y'all 're investigatin', mista' Baratheon, which ought t' mean you just come along fo' the ride," the Elder Brother said, pouring Stan a cup of coffee and handing it to him.

"Strictly speaking," he huffed, taking the coffee and holding it in his hands, as if he didn't know what to do with it. "I am significantly more experienced in the courtroom than these two, so I'm watching over them to make sure they don't screw anything important up," he finished, glowering at Melissa where she sat beside her friend.

"This is a very important case to you, is it not, Mr. Baratheon?" said the lavender-scented Russian in perfect, formal English.

"It is," he said simply. Dave could tell by the way he clenched his jaw that he was trying not to act affronted.

"The Ironthrone Conglomerate controls many of the natural resources in the country, as I'm sure you're both aware," Dave said. "Should they keep operating as they've been operating, though, they'll be bankrupt in no time."

"They are, as I understand it, already deeply in debt with a bank in Brasil, is that right?" Varys asked, his mask of concern all too dramatic to be genuine, coming off smug instead.

"They are," Melissa said gravely. "And their current situation with Mrs. Lannister-Baratheon as the predominant shareholder is not one that is likely to promote improvement."

"She knows _nothing_ about how to run a business," Stan snapped, unable to restrain himself.

"It seems 'at if they _do_ go bankrupt, we's all headed back under recession, 's that right?" The Elder Brother asked.

"Doubtlessly," Stan growled.

"There's no way to know for sure, Brother, but it's likely," Dave corrected evenly.

"And y'all 're in need o' witnesses t' help yo' case along, then?"

"That's right," Dave said warily, "we do."

The Elder Brother exchanged a glance with his counterpart.

"We found Sansa Stark," the bald Russian finally said.

"Did you? Goodness, that's...that's fantastic!" Dave exclaimed. He glanced at Melissa, who looked less surprised than she should have. _Did she know something and not tell us?_ But now was not a time to breed resentment. Stan stopped grinding his teeth for a moment.

"Where is she?" he inquired. "Is the Imp with her?"

"She is hiding out in rural Montana, and as far as we can tell, she is alone," the Russian responded.

"Slippery bastard," Stan grumbled, crossing his arms. "How did you find her?"

"Well," the Elder Brother began, leaning his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped before him. "There's a man here doin' his 12-steps at the clinic, an' he been real' torn up 'bout her disappearance. I aksed my frien' Varys here t' help see where she was, t' see 'f I could help bring 'im some peace, in knowin' if she's a'ight."

"When it occurred to me that this Miss Stark I was looking for was the same as my dear Melissa had expressed frustration over not being able to find some time ago, I thought to alert you to her whereabouts."

"I should say so," Stan huffed. Dave gave Melissa a wary glance and leaned forward.

"Who's this man of yours who's been asking after her?" he asked the Elder Brother. The man rubbed his legs before responding.

"Well, he's supposed t' be anonymous, but seein' as you's men o' the law, he go' by the name o' Sandor Clegane."

"_Clegane!? _Ow, _shit._" Stan jumped, spilling a little bit of his still-hot coffee over his fingers. "He's supposed to be dead, I thought," he hissed, wiping his fingers off on his pants.

"He gave it the ol' college try, sir," the Elder Brother smiled. "I's too good't what I do t' let 'im die on me, though."

"Clegane was one of Joffrey's bodyguards," Stan explained to Dave and Melissa. "He hardly left the boy's side. He has to know something useful."

"Can we talk to him?" Dave asked. The Elder Brother frowned.

"'Fraid that wouldn't do y'all much good. He don't want nothin' t' do wit' yo' corporate games. I can't tell y'all how many time he told me's much."

"Maybe not, but would you at least let us talk to him and ask him for ourselves?" Melissa asked.

"Y'all can talk t' him's much as y' like. But since he supposed t' be anonymous, I don' think I should show y'all his way."

Dave could hear Stan grinding his teeth beside him. "That's not how confidentiality wor—"

"—What about if we look at this from a more _opportunistic_ viewpoint, gentlemen; ladies," the Russian interrupted. "You all still await the appearance of a certain number of...how would I say? _Bad actors_, perhaps, namely Tyrion Lannister and Petyr Baelish, yes? As well as some more conclusive evidence to crop up about the more contemptible achievements of the Tyrell and Redwyne families, I should think. Well, if you were to scuttle off north and fetch back Miss Stark now, she will need to be kept in a safe-house indefinitely until you are ready to prosecute. Fair enough, but, gentlemen, she does appear to be safe where she is for the time being, but just to be sure, how about we send someone to watch over her? Someone else we should like to keep track of?"

There was quiet for a moment as the taskforce mulled over the proposal. "Like who?" Stan finally snapped. The Russian man gave a sly little smile.

"Forgive me, I thought I made that obvious," he said haughtily. "Sandor Clegane."

Stan stopped grinding his teeth to speak. "Out of the question. That's not even close to observing protocol."

"It doesn't have to observe protocol. Officially, we don't know anything about Sansa Stark," Melissa said carefully.

"This is why we insisted on having this conversation face-to-face, gentlemen," Varys said with a smile. "To sidestep any formal measures that would actually hinder the advancement of your investigations." Dave furrowed his brow, sighing. He didn't like the sound of that, but the Russians had a point.

"If we send Clegane after her, we'll be able to keep tabs on both of them," Dave stated, a concession. "We'll know where they are, and we'll be able to get to them when we need them."

"It's not such a bad idea, Stan," Melissa insisted.

He ground his teeth another moment more in the silence. "How do we know she'll stay safe there? If you managed to find her, who's to say that the Tyrells won't?"

"My little birds destroyed any evidence of her they found that would lead to her discovery by any...unsavoury types."

"Including us," Stan spat. "That's obstruction of justice, you know," he threatened.

"Yet another reason why we're having this conversation now," the perfumed Russian responded cordially. Stan continued to grind his teeth.

"I think it's a fine idea," Melissa said boldly. Stan whipped around to glower at her as if she'd said something treacherous.

"I've got my reservations about it," Dave admitted, "but it seems like the best plan we've got in terms of keeping our yet-to-be-official witnesses safe while we build our case."

Stan exhaled sharply. "Well, you won't hear me _condoning_ it. And there's nothing I can do to stop you, it seems...seeing as I'm not even officially on the taskforce, anyway," he said sulkily.

"So it's settled, then? We send Sandor Clegane to watch over the Stark girl?" Melissa chirped, hopeful.

"I don't see why not," Dave shrugged.

"We can't even talk to him for a _minute_, brother?" Stan interjected. "Not even to tell him about this..._plot_ we're hatching?!"

"Not 'f y'all want this 'plot' o' yours t' work none," the Elder Brother conditioned with a squint. "We best jus' set 'im up wit' a place t' stay an' a job t' do, an' let 'im take care o' the girl on his own."

And they arranged to do just that. After the finances had been settled and the taskforce took the time to grab lunch at a local diner the Elder Brother suggested (with killer milkshakes, it had to be said) they were back on the road, Stan resuming his residence in the back seat, ever cranky still.

"I still don't understand why he wouldn't let us talk to Clegane. I mean, we don't even know if he knows anything."

"I'm sure he does," Dave tried to reassure him, but the man was set on his ranting. _Note to self: Stan Baratheon is only a good boss so long as he gets to __**be**__ the boss._

"Still. It's suspicious..." he insisted, looking out the window warily. It was, theoretically, but Dave had a good feeling about this, and after so long in the police force, he'd learned to trust his gut. "But for Chrissake, Seaworth, could we have a _little bit_ of air back here? I'm drowning in my own sweat."

"If you say so, sir," he said, and flicked the air conditioning on high.

::

A/N: We're going to pay attention to the backdrop of this story for a minute or two. For those who are a bit slow on the uptake: Stan=Stannis; Dave=Davos; Melissa=Melisandre

Look! It's the review box! Aww, it looks lonely...why don't y'all keep it company?


	12. Chapter 10

As much as Sansa might have squirmed at the thought of admitting such a thing, Alayne had _no _complaints about starting off her days with a shirtless Sandor Clegane. Nope. Not one.

"Today," he said with finality, peeling his t-shirt up off his figure in a slow reveal of what lay beneath—he looked to be a study for the David, rejected for his impossibly superlative masculinity, "will be the day," he continued, wadding the shirt up in his hand, finding her with those stormy gray eyes of his, a glint of something she'd seen before playing in them, along with a smirk at the edge of his mouth, "that I _finally_ beat you," he finished, throwing down the garment onto the tile like he was throwing a gauntlet.

She quirked an eyebrow at him, watching the play of the muscles in his shoulders and biceps as he stretched showily, sauntering up onto the diving block beside her. "You've been saying that for a week, Sandor. Even when I try to _let _you win, you still lose."

"That's because you're trying to let me win. I'm _the Hound. _I don't put up with that shit," he said, cracking his neck, pulling his hair back to tie it up.

"What makes you so certain that today's the day, then, sir?" he cut her a glare but ignored the title. _'I'm a boxer, not a businessman. I'm a thug. I'm no __**sir**__,'_ he had told her, once.

"It said so in my fortune cookie last night," he said mock-seriously. "It said, 'You will soon achieve what you have been striving for.' And I've been striving to _beat _you, little bird," he growled in a way that would have sounded sinister to the untrained ear that knew not how to find mirth in his ruined voice. He reached out to jab her in her side, and she wrenched away from him so violently she nearly fell in the water.

Once she regained her balance she shot back a sidelong glare, unable to restrain the grin on her lips. "Well then," she countered. "Let's see what you can do. Freestyle, down and back. On your mark...get set..."

And he dove in before she could finish.

_Sandor!_ She thought petulantly, launching herself forward and stroking out with even, practiced motions, soon catching up to his chaotic, powerful strokes that echoed in the empty room and left her rocking gently in the waves he left in his wake.

He did, in fact, beat her, though she suspected he didn't swim all the way to the end of his lane like he was supposed to. When she surfaced back where they'd started to find him panting in triumph, stray strands of hair plastered to the bad side of his face, she launched herself over the lane divider and drove little punches into his arms and chest, not trying (but still managing) to relish the feeling of his muscles beneath her knucklebones.

"NOT FAIR NOT FAIR NOT FAIR!"

"What have I always told you about _fair_, girl?" he asked, half-serious, grabbing her up by her wrists in one huge hand and hoisting her up out of the water, grinning wickedly.

"Yeah, but...!" she sputtered, trying to twist out of his grip, finally resolving to pull her whole body out of the water and hang her whole weight on his arm with no support from the water. Even that did not send her splashing down, though. _Good God he's __**strong**__,_ she thought, _harrumph_ing and squealing and squirming in the cold air above the water. He was chuckling beneath her, though his jaw was set against the strain. "This isn't the rest of the world, though! This is morning swimming!" she eventually managed to whine, and she watched a little frown appear in his eyes before he lowered her down into the water gently.

"You're right. I'm sorry little bird," he said guiltily, releasing her wrists and sending her upper body splashing into the water.

"No need to be _sorry,_ Sandor," she said, crawling up the pool wall and out behind her starting block again. She shot him a little competitive smirk as she climbed back up and coiled herself to start, watching as his expression changed from those puppy-dog eyes she'd come to know so well to a smirk that matched her own. "Just up for a rematch."

Which she won, by the way, fair and square.

It was queer, what had happened: he'd become a living, breathing talisman of her life before, and that, in turn, had endeared her to him fiercely, so much it almost scared her as their relationship phased from mutual curiosity to a dependency, just as mutual, and indefinite. Never did they seek to verbally explore, prod or examine the nature of the bond they shared—it sustained them, and it was bone-deep. Beyond that, they had only quiet. It was all either of them cared to know of it, seemed to her.

Once she might have thought she would banish all memory of her time in LA, but in losing all she'd ever loved, even bad memories had become precious to her, so long as they were _hers. _She had this interminable habit of seeking to possess him, hoard him, in spite of their separate choreography—reflected in her interactions with him she was reminded of all the better aspects of the girl Alayne had replaced; unlike her interactions with Petyr, who demanded all those submissive elements of Sansa that had made her once so weak. Hanging out with Sandor reminded her that she could be _strong_ as _Sansa_, that her fortitude and fury was not rationed only to Alayne. He had appeared, a specter in the cemetery, to become her protector, and yet more importantly he helped her understand that _she_ was able to _protect_ herself. But this sense was tethered to him, it seemed—for as soon as she was back in Petyr's grasp she was a meek shade, a livid photocopy of a girl she had once been, packed tightly back into a cocoon that she now could see she'd outgrown.

And _God _it was tight in there, squeezing back into those lies, whether she was expected to behave as Sansa would with Petyr or act the part of Alayne at school. She was neither. She was both. And only Sandor got to see that.

Petyr, though, was a temporary necessity, a stepping stone, as she saw it. He'd given her a new identity and a new chance at life, and once she was finished and graduated from Flathead High as Alayne Stone, she would find some way out into the world. It was cruel of her to use him, perhaps, but then again, hadn't he acted out of wanting to help her? Whatever reservations he had about college was related to her safety, nothing more.

Sandor did not agree. He made that plain enough in the multitude of conversations they'd had on the subject. "Get your head out of the clouds, little bird," he was telling her presently. "He's not your fairy-fucking-godmother. This is Petyr Baelish we're talking about here. I mean…_fuck_ little bird, he's a _corporate lawyer,_ how great of a guy could he _possibly be_?"

They stood in the shallow end, Sansa leaning on the buoyant plastic rope that marked out the lanes in the pool as was her custom while they chatted. He'd folded his arms across his chest and furrowed his brow when the conversation turned serious though, fringing on disagreement, standing an arms' length from her as he did when he was trying to be serious, a completely different person to reckon with than the Sandor she usually swam with, suddenly someone much older than him. She couldn't just splash water in his face and swim away, taunting him into chasing her. She couldn't goad him into flirting with her until he forgot about it. He was…_dogged_ about this.

"I mean, sure, he's a bit of a creep sometimes, but he's nothing I can't handle," she said casually. "He's no Joffrey."

He winced at that, turning to blink at a pair of headlights that appeared in the windows beside them, some car turning around in the parking lot. "He's cut from the same cloth, little bird, don't you go kidding yourself."

"I'm not!" she protested. "And he isn't. Really. Creepy does not mean _abusive._"

"Where do you think abuse comes from? People who _aren't_ already creepy to begin with?"

"Joffrey wasn't a creep!"

"I can't believe you're sticking up for him. After all he did to you."

She opened her mouth to speak and closed it again. What did she have to say to that?

But her silence began to sound like concession, and she couldn't have that, not now. "Can't you just trust me to know what's good for myself? For once?" She snapped, breaking her quiet.

He chuckled at her then, rasping peals of mirthless laughter that stung her stomach. "I'll trust you to know what's good for you the minute you start showing that _you do,_ little bird. Until then, I'm going to tell you what I think, whether you like it or not, and I'm gonna be right."

She frowned at him. "Well whether you're right or not, what difference does it make? I'm staying with Petyr for now, but one day I won't be. I can take care of myself until then," she pouted.

"Just how soon do you think that day is gonna come, little bird?"

"Soon," she said through gritted teeth, then more softly, "soon. It has to be."

"If you say so, little bird. Just don't forget about that phone I gave you," he growled, almost like a threat, not one for her. "Don't forget what it's for."

"Emergencies. Right. I know. Please, Sandor, have a little faith in me, will you?" she whined, looking up at him through her pool-wet lashes and found him staring at her, searching her eyes for something. A big warm hand found her cheek as he edged just a step closer, his thumb tracing a cheekbone for just a moment.

"Let me do something right for once," he said lowly, almost whispering to her. "I'm not amending anything by sitting here and splashing around with your pretty little ass in this pool every morning. Don't get me wrong, this is_ great_ little bird, but…" he closed his eyes tightly, the burned side of his mouth twitching before they fluttered open, his other hand cupping the other side of her face tightly. "Let me take you away from here. I could keep you safe…The Lannisters, the Tyrells, the Redwynes…fucking Petyr Baelish—they're all afraid of me," he rasped, his fingers tracing little circles on her neck as he spoke. "No one would hurt you again, or I'd _kill _them."

She blinked up at him; his stare was hot and intense, heavily weighing on her and trapping her within it. Words were gone from her for a moment, as was all motion, her whole world focused on his stare and what it meant, what he was _asking_.

"But I'll be safe here," she whimpered, cracking under the pressure of the moment, "Petyr won't hurt me. Please can we just…can we just keep this? As we've been? Please?"

He grimaced, slowly dropping his hands from her face until they _splish_ed back into the water. "If you say so, little bird." But he seemed sad. Why would he be sad? That didn't make any sense. His expression changed then, twisting into one she'd known better on him once upon a time, not now. "But if that's how we're gonna play this, then we need to have a plan for when Petyr and I casually bump into each other at the shop-n-go." He snarled. That made her wince, but he kept going, raising his voice nearly to a rasping shout. "I mean really, Sansa, this is a town of twenty-thousand people. How much longer do you think it's gonna take?!"

"…I'll tell him you're here."

That prompted a harsh bark of laughter. "Bull_shit_ you will."

"You won't give me away. I can make him understand that."

"You _can't_, Sansa," he hissed, grabbing both of her shoulders and leaning in close to her face. "I mean…" he ground his teeth for a moment, closing his eyes and turning his face a bit before he looked at her again. "I mean look at me now. You're not able to convince _me _that _he_ won't hurt you, and he isn't Joffrey's three-hundred-pound rabid pet dog. So tell me little bird, how are you going to convince _him_ that I won't hurt you?"

She blinked at him, something stinging hot in her eyes and closing up her throat. He was confusing her. What did he want her to say to that? And he was ruining it all, the confidence she'd built, making her doubt herself. She couldn't afford that, not now. _Be strong, Sansa,_ Alayne whispered to her. "What are you saying, Sandor?" She asked, her voice quivering, betraying her.

"Oh fuck, no, little bird, don't cry, I—" he picked up the lane separator and ducked under it, pulling her against his hard warm chest with one thick arm and crouching down into the water a little to get closer to her. "I'm just…" but he sighed as she choked on a sob she tried to suppress, not wanting to make him feel guilty, but the stress of her predicament kept pressing down on her shoulders and wrapping its fingers around her throat. "It's just a hard story to sell, little bird. That's all I'm trying to say."

"You're not telling me to—to be afraid of you?" she whimpered, clenching her jaw, trying to steady herself as she slipped her arms around his neck and let him hold her.

"God, no, little bird…" he sighed. "I mean…I probably should, but that's not what I'm saying." She gave a little chuckle against his skin, his chest hair soft where her cheek was nuzzled into it. "But this…this can't last, little bird, and…I just want you to stop deluding yourself. That's all I've ever wanted for you, really."

"Yeah, I guess so," she sniffed, rubbing her temple against his collarbone and leaning her forehead on his neck. His fingers stroked her back in lazy little circles, and it occurred to her that he'd never held her like this, and that she felt safe here, gathered up in his arms and huddled against him. _'I could keep you safe'…_ "I just…I want to come to my own conclusions, okay?" She sniffed again. "I mean, you're not there with me every day. He probably isn't even being that creepy, I'm probably just blowing things way out of proportion."

"Whatever you say, little bird…whatever you say," he said, his voice thick with uncertainty, before tucking his face against her head and sighing into her hair. She could not have said how long he held her like that, surrounded by the warmth of the water, all tucked up into the safety he exuded like breath, until he broke the continuum of the moment with an admission, whispered so softly she almost felt she was intruding on something by responding.

"_Shit_ it feels good to hold you."

"I know what you mean," she said, smiling a little and tucking her face further into his chest. _What am I saying?_ She asked herself, the moment suddenly viscous with the things it could mean. She savored flirting with him, she knew, but this wasn't flirting. This was denser stuff than that, wrapped up in his safety; this was more important somehow. She found herself giddy with it, ignoring the dozens of other ways she could confront the nameless, faceless feelings that presented themselves inside her, and giggled a little into his chest. He responded with a chuckle, low and buzzing in her bones where they were pressed against him. She countered with another giggle and before she knew it they were laughing for true, at nothing apparent to anyone but them.

"So," he finally sighed, rubbing his hand into her hair affectionately before releasing her into the water. "I've been meaning to ask: what _was_ that with your friend calling me _Xander_?"

"Oh, uhh…" she said, giving another little nervous laugh.

The day before they'd gone to IHOP for Thanksgiving breakfast, in lieu of a proper meal together, and she'd been in the process of marveling at _just how many_ pancakes a man his size could demolish when to her horror a fleshy, smiling woman in black materialized and slid into the booth beside her.

"And what are you doing up this early, Alayne?" Randa had said, slipping an arm around her shoulders for a hug before directing her attention to the man who had since stopped chewing mid-bite, narrowed eyes flitting between her and their visitor, and addressed him without letting Alayne respond. "You must be Xander. I'm Randa," she said, extending her hand over the table to Sandor, whose eyes had gone wide with panic. "I'm sure you must have heard of me by now. I'm Alayne's best friend, aren't I, Alayne?"

"PLAY ALONG," Sansa mouthed. He cleared his throat, swallowed, and wiped his mouth on his wrist before taking her hand.

"Yeah, it's…uhh, nice to finally meet you, Randa," he said, his voice ringing with irony. "Seems you already know who I am, then," he continued, leaning back, casting a covert glare at Sansa.

"Oh yes. Alayne's told me _all about_ you," Randa said, grabbing Alayne's hand under the table. "You didn't tell me he was so _big!_" she whispered to her.

"Pretty sure I did," Alayne said, not bothering to whisper. She could feel how red her face was—whether with embarrassment or panic, she could hardly tell. _Likely both. Oh God…_ Sandor had fixe4d her with an incredulous glare, his arms folded over his chest, sleeves of his flannel shirt pulled tight over his muscles, looking menacing. It was almost distracting.

"Alayne didn't mention you were coming up to visit," Randa continued, nudging Alayne with her shoulder.

"It was, ugh," he coughed, trying to get his rasping under control. "I surprised her."

"Aww! How sweet!" Randa said, turning to grin at Alayne and punch her in the shoulder. Sansa managed a wan little smile in return, her brow creased with worry as she cast another glance at Sandor, who'd adopted a little smirk. Was he _enjoying_ this spectacle? Knowing him, he probably was. _I'm never going to hear the end of this._ "So how was the drive up?"

Sandor smirked at Sansa for another moment longer before responding to the girl, engaging her in a terse little conversation full of questions each of them pretended to know the answers to. _Finally_ the other girl excused herself, spinning to mime _CALL ME _to Alayne before she rejoined whomever she'd arrived with, leaving Sansa with a darkly amused Sandor snickering at her.

"So, _Xander,_ was it, little bird?" He quirked an eyebrow at her, rasping peals of laughter rumbling in his chest.

"Can we please talk about it later somewhere other than here right now please?!" Sansa rushed, forking off an ambitious chunk of pancake and shoving it into her mouth to end the conversation that had yet begun, avoiding his eyes. That only seemed to make him laugh harder, though.

"Alright, little bird. So long as you promise to fill me in sometime _soon._"

She had been hoping he would just forget about the whole thing, but that was a stupid hope. He'd adopted his same expression of dark amusement presently, crossing his arms again and leaning against the lane separator as he waited for her explanation to start.

"Yeah, well…So when I first met Randa, she said she wanted to know all of my secrets…" Sansa started, crossing her ankles under the water and pulling her hair over one shoulder. "It was my first day as Alayne and stuff and I was pretty scared still…and so when she said _secrets_ I just kinda panicked…but then I realized she was talking about guys, not, like, secret identities and stuff…and I guess I just thought of you first."

"Wait, wait, wait. Wait. She was asking you about _guys,_ as in _guys you've been with,_ and you thought of _me?_"

"Yeah, I guess," she said, avoiding his disbelieving stare, that strange light in his eyes. "I mean…I had to make something up, but it was like I just _couldn't,_ you know? Not completely anyway. My brain was all frozen. So I decided to base whatever I told her off something that'd happened to Sansa, and I knew I couldn't base anything off Joffrey and stuff, because…well, lots of reasons."

"Wait. Wait. I'm even more confused, hang on," Sandor laughed, holding his hand out to stop her. "You wanted to base what you told her on an experience you had with a guy?"

"Yeah."

"And you talked about me?"

"Yeah…?" _Am I blushing?_

He blinked at her for a second. "So, what did you tell her?"

"I told her, uhh…" she squeezed her eyes shut, couldn't take the insistent press of his eyes at that moment, the laughter in them, the incredulity. "That you were a friend of a boyfriend that I had. And that we hooked up one night right before I moved to Montana. And that you gave me your jacket."

She opened an eye just a sliver to peek up at him. He'd drawn closer to her, looming over her with his intent on her answer, and begun to gape, his mouth hanging open, his brows raised. "Hook up _how_?"

_Oh, nope, there I go. __**Now**__ I'm blushing. _"I told her…thatyoutookmyvirginity, maybe, I dunno."

"Lit—that I—_you told her that I fucked you?!"_

"Well…uhh…"

"How much…I mean…"

"You're not mad, are you?"

"What? No, not…just…How much…_detail_ did she make you go into?...No, wait, actually don't answer that…just…what the hell were you _basing_ this on?"

"Well…well you _did_ kiss me. And give me your jacket."

The pool room was absolutely silent.

She chanced a glance at him. His brows were knit together and he was staring at her, blinking at her, shaking his head gently as he did, as if trying vainly to refocus his eyes on her. "You think I _kissed _you?!"

"Yeah…Don't you remember?" She was a little hurt. How could he forget? He had been _crying_ after all, after she'd cupped his cheek and sang to him. Or had it been before all that, before the song? Suddenly she couldn't remember, though she'd thought she had it memorized, every little detail studiously recounted in vivid color…

"I never _kissed_ you, little bird. Believe me. I would remember."

"You _were_ pretty high."

"High or drunk or half-dead or in my sleep. If I'd come anywhere _close _to kissing you, I would know."

"I remember you kissed me. I _remember."_

"Fuck me, little bird, if you're so keen on having a memory of me kissing you, we can settle this argument right now," he said, brushing a finger up under her chin. She could feel him looking at her, but for the first time since he'd appeared in the cemetery she found she couldn't look back.

"You never kissed me?" She whimpered up at him, eyes wide, unable to explain why a void seemed to expand inside her chest.

"I never kissed you, little bird. That was a pretty little fantasy of yours," he said, crouching down to face her. "We can fix that now, though, if you'd like."

He had her chin between his thumb and forefinger like he used to do, tilting her mouth up where he could get to it as he slowly drifted in. His eyes were fluttering shut, his breath beginning to ghost over her lips, but a jolt of panic seized her. "I—I uhh…" she stuttered involuntarily, wishing she hadn't.

He gave the smallest of sighs, drawing himself upwards and letting his fingers slip off her face. Quiet for a moment as he awkwardly lumbered away, ducking back into his usual lane, he said "probably better off this way, little bird." She wasn't so sure, but the moment was gone now, he'd withdrawn inside himself. "It's time to get out and shower, anyway."

"I don't have school today," she stammered, watching his muscles ripple as he hoisted himself out of the water without the use of a ladder. "We can swim a few more laps if you…" but he was stalking off towards the showers, not listening to her.

_Well done, Sansa._

_Shut up._

She hurried through her shower routine, hoping he wouldn't try to escape without saying goodbye to her in his embarrassment. That was what it was, she figured; he'd clearly wanted her to let him correct her memory, but she had to go and _fucking fuck it up. Fuck. Listen to yourself, you sound like him right now. Fuck, I wanted him to kiss me. I want him to kiss me. What the fuck? Fuck!_ She groaned, knocking her forehead into the tile wall gently and taking a deep breath to reclaim her composure before darting out of the shower and dressing, towel-drying her hair carelessly and not bothering with her makeup. The tightness in her chest relaxed when she saw him sitting right where he always sat, waiting for her, and he gave her a little expression he probably meant to pass for a smile before standing and escorting her out to their cars, like he always did, though not without a stiff formality to his every move that echoed a time before.

_Should I apologize?_ She thought to herself, thanking him as he held the door open for her into the parking lot. _Should I ask him to kiss me now? Would that be horrible and stupid?_ But he was the one who spoke first, starting with a sigh.

"I…I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable back there, little bird. I just…it sounded like you wanted me to kiss you was all," she tried to interrupt him, wantint to say that it was her fault, that she'd led him on, that she wanted to make it up to him. That she'd been wrong to hesitate. That her hesitation had been a lie. "I'm just trying to do my best to make amends to you, little bird, and if that's by swimming with you then I'll swim with you. If that's by kissing you then I'll kiss you. If that's by not kissing you then I won't."

"But Sandor, I—"

"Now, you be thinking about how you want to move forward between me and Baelish," he almost snarled, backing up against his car, pacing around to the driver's side. "I'll let you 'come to your own conclusion,' as you put it, so long as you look like you're making a move towards it, but if your ideas are stupid I'll still tell you so."

"But—" _fuck me, __**come back**__!_ "Sandor, _wait!_"

But he was already in his car, pointedly avoiding her, and driving away.

Dejected, she wrenched open her own car door and slid inside, just as biting cold within as the raw elements were. She thought about putting the key into the ignition and turning the car on, at least to get some heat going. She found she couldn't, though, not for another minute at least as she banged her forehead into the steering wheel and groaned to herself, her insides roiling with embarrassment and shame and hurt.

_Stupid stupid stupid stupid_…she was still thinking, pulling up into her driveway. _I should call him. We need to clear this up. So I want him to kiss me…_ _God, what does this __**mean**__?! _She was so consumed by her thoughts that she didn't notice Petyr set up in his favorite recliner, his hands folded primly on his lap, before he spoke to her.

"How was your swim this morning, sweetheart?" he said cloyingly. She jumped.

"Oh, uh, fine. Average, I guess."

"Anyone there today?"

"Nope. Empty as usual," she chirped, crossing to her room.

He sighed, a measured, weighted little sigh. "Come here, sweetheart. You look like you need a hug."

"I'm actually kind of tired, Dad. I was gonna go take a nap," she dismissed, creeping towards her hallway, turning her back to where he sat in the living room.

She heard the recliner creak, and then his hand was in her hair, pulling her head back. She shrieked a little, freezing up, her blood running cold. _What the…_

"I'm _very _disappointed in you, Sansa," he sneered, wrenching her around, dipping his face so that their noses nearly touched. "You've been keeping things from me. How long did you think you could get away with it, hm? And after everything I've done from you...ungrateful bitch." _What? __**What? WHAT?**_ "Your mother is rolling in her grave at the way you've treated me, Sansa," he whined breathily, pressing himself against her, his fingers digging into her lower back, twisting in her hair. He leaned in and to whisper in her ear, making her start and shiver. He'd taken her completely off-guard. What _was_ this?! "I know the dog is here," he growled. _Oh, __**fuck.**_ "And _this_ is how this is going to go…"

And he kissed her then, full on the mouth, open and hungry. His tongue breached her quickly and began to plunder her mouth, and though she tried to push him off, tried to twist away, the hand that held her hair only gripped her to him harder. Alayne wanted to lash out, wanted to claw his face off and knee him in the balls, but Sansa had her frozen. _Don't,_ she told herself, _don't do anything to make him angrier. You can't fight your way out of this one, no more than you could fight your way out of anything with Sandor._

_Sandor…_

"Pack a bag," Petyr panted, wiping the drool off his lips when he finally, _finally _broke the awful kiss, releasing her from where he'd dug his fingers into her hair and her hip. "You've got fifteen minutes. We're _leaving._"

_Sandor…!_


	13. Chapter 11

The little bird was chirping behind him, but it was winter now, not a time for birdsongs. The only music he let himself hear was that his wet feet made, slapping time against the tile as he all but bolted for the sanctuary of the men's showers. _No running_, the signs said. He didn't want to comply but found, once he got there, that he had anyway.

_Fuck. Me._

How many hours had he spent trying to suspend all hope for her, in any form it might manifest itself? And all for naught, all the good it did him. He'd been trying to prevent this. _Fucking hell. _He was so frustrated with himself he thought he might scream, involuntarily, like the crazy person he'd decided he might well be, after all this. _She couldn't even meet your eyes, dog. In what universe does that beg 'kiss me'?!_

His insides roiled with embarrassment and self-loathing, fanned into a blaze to keep the looming, interminable hurt of her rejection at bay. He felt like he'd taken a kick to the chest and shattered every rib—breathing hurt so much he almost thought he would faint, and his eyes were so thick with pain that he could hardly see straight. He tried to blame the chlorine, the poolwater, the chemicals therein, but it was not a saltwater pool, and whatever was stopping up his sight was salty, warm. But he didn't want to cry, so he punched the tile wall until his shoulder ached instead.

It wasn't her fault that she'd thwarted him. He should have understood the meaning in her lack of response the first time he'd asked if she wanted her "memory corrected," but no, he'd let his hope abduct him; a runway train, hurtling towards some cliff at unfathomable speeds—such was his hope, terminal, unabating.

He'd taken his paws off her, though, when it was clear she didn't want him. That, at least, was something. It made him better than Greg, and fucking Tyrion, and that prick _Don_, whoever the fuck he was (who, if he hadn't already been dead, would definitely be wishing he were by now, after the..._things_ the little bird had relayed) and Petyr too, if his hunches were anything to be trusted. But it wasn't anything to congratulate, not kissing a girl who didn't want to be kissed. It was like not pissing himself—basic, unremarkable, and shameful if otherwise.

_I have to explain this. I have to get her to forgive me. _

Steam drifted up off his skin though the shower felt lukewarm, and he could feel himself shaking like he had a muscle weakness, some sort of spasm seizing him. It was just his heart, though. _You've gone soft, dog, _something inside him snarled. But that was old news. He'd gone soft for Sansa Stark a long time ago.

It was the night of the boxing tournament, he remembered, the one Mr. Baratheon insisted on holding for Mr. Stark, to honor the merging of Winterfell Logging Co. into the Ironthrone Conglomerate Group, which included Baratheon Power Solutions and Casterly Mining Company, among other private enterprises. Sandor hadn't taken the night off his bodyguarding duties, though, and was accordingly not in the match line-up for the evening. Though he loved a good fight better than a good fuck, he knew better than to put on his gloves that night: his brother was meant to be in the ring, and he was no more interested in dying that night than committing murder. Sandor would easily beat any opponents he was put up against, but so would Greg—it would end up with brother fighting brother, and theirs was a history too long and sordid to put on display. So he stood behind Joffrey, stoic as could be with his eyes cast out over the crowd, just able to spy her where she sat, right beside her long-faced father along the railing.

_God_, her hair was red, then. He remembered her carefully, cradling the memory with the tips of his fingers like one was supposed to do with old photographs—it was before she started to look broken, the tournament was. She was still pink-cheeked and smiling, always smiling, at Joff, Cersei, everyone. He'd even gotten a smile himself, once...it had only been a half-smile, really—she hadn't looked him in the eye, but flashed him her upturned mouth all the same.

It was the half-smile he was dwelling on—glutting on, really; it was one of so few kindnesses he'd known—when his brother's opponent sauntered up to the ring.

A featherweight kid. One Loras Tyrell. It was a farce—the kid was doomed.

He sidled behind Joff's seat to whisper to his father.

"'xcuse me, sir, but is that supposed to be my brother's opponent?"

"Is'e?" Robert asked. Sandor had wanted to sigh. _Goddamn it, he's already drunk. He's so stubborn when he's drunk. _

_Look who's talking._

"I think so. Look."

'The Mountain That Fights' came waddling up to the ring, then. He had a cotton robe, buttercup yellow trimmed with black, tied tight around his massive frame, and for a moment Sandor thought he looked like a bumblebee, all ridiculous size and false innocuousness. He looked like Gerard Butler had in _300,_ if someone had dropped him into photoshop and dragged his corners outward until he looked pixelated, cross-eyed and monstrous. He shed the garment in a single, almost graceful movement, sending it to the floor with a _snap_ as his coach pulled black boxing gloves onto his hands, tailor-made to fit his massive ham-hands .

Just the sight of him made Sandor's blood pressure spike.

"Tyrell kid'll be a'right, he's really _good_...At...boxing," Robert insisted in a slur as the boxers made a mockery of shaking hands. _It'd be like me boxing with Joffrey for chrissake. _

That wasn't how it turned out, though.

Robert had been right, oddly enough; the Tyrell kid _was_ good. So good that he won, in fact, on technicalities and points alone, ducking deftly out of Greg's punishing blows, dancing circles around him, landing hits the great brute probably didn't feel but counted for points nonetheless. On one hand it was _so_ satisfying to see his brother being bested, and by a schoolboy no less, but as the match dragged on he saw the darkness rising in his brother's eyes, a darkness he knew all too well, and started to feel something other than satisfaction, coming on him in a drip, a trickle, a stream.

_Dread._

And when the emcee hoisted Loras Tyrell's little green boxing glove into the air, the kid beaming like he was a five-year-old on his birthday, the floodgates opened and his dread flattened him in its oncoming force. Because he could see it all before it even happened.

Greg started by pushing his coach out of the ring. Right over the ropes, like he was nothing, an insect on his shoulder, just brushed him right off. One step later he was in the middle of the ring, one hand on the emcee's shoulder, the other drawn back for the punch. It knocked him out, leaving the emcee less half a mouth of teeth, sprawled forgotten behind him. Then he closed in on the Tyrell kid.

Sandor wasn't even aware that he'd moved.

"Leave him alone," he growled at his brother, jumping the ropes and landing on his feet, his hands already balled into fists, his neck and shoulders braced for the punishing impacts he knew would come.

And then it was happening—inevitable, he guessed—all a rush of blood and instinct, hormones and flush and sweat and reaction...and pain, some pain, but also a sick, cloying sweetness, something syrupy that had gone rancid, heavy in his throat.

"_That's enough!_" Robert yelled, and immediately Sandor found himself on one knee, stooping low to miss out any last hits his brother might have tried to land before grinding to a halt, stalking off away from the ring. Sandor's lungs were greedy for air, taking it in gasping, heaving breaths through flared nostrils, trying to maintain some shred of dignity. He felt his bad eye beginning to swell, a feeling he knew would color it black, and he wanted to laugh that bitter, sardonic laugh of his that came so naturally to broken men. _Just can't do enough to ruin that right side of my face, can you bro?_

"I owe you my life, sir," the Tyrell kid projected, all dramatic, like he was putting on a play.

"Don't call me _sir_," Sandor spat back, blowing a stray tendril of black hair out of his face so he could better glare at the kid. But Tyrell just took him by the elbow, drew him up standing again, and took his hand, hoisting it as high above their heads as he could. _Victory. Mine._

That was when he saw her, _well I'll be fucked,_ giving him a goddamned standing ovation and a beautiful, beaming smile, trapping him in those eyes that were so blue they scared him, looking on him with admiration and relief. Like he was some kind of hero.

It made his throat feel thick, his blood burn. He realized he wanted to be _that,_ whatever she saw, whatever she was smiling at so brightly. Even though it was him, he was still jealous of it. That it _was_ him almost made it worse, absurdly.

The party moved to a bar after his brawl with his brother ended the fighting for the night, prize money in the form of a cheque tucked into his wallet (he hadn't argued with the Tyrell kid on _that_ count), buried in the pocket of his favourite leather jacket, the same he'd left with the little bird that she seemed to have taken to wearing presently. The other Stark children had gone back to their suites in the Red Keep building, on the other side of the railroad tracks from the bar, but Sansa had tried to accompany Joff to the after-party, hoping she wouldn't get carded at the door. With his luck she had been, though, and instead of offering to drive her home himself, as even a dog like Sandor knew he should, Joff had called for Sandor and dispensed her to him, like she was some toy he'd been playing with and was too lazy to put away. He didn't even say goodbye to her, didn't even kiss her goodnight.

And she looked deflated, disappointed, depressed even, all the light gone out from her eyes leaving only the depth of them, blue, blue, blue. _Even I know to treat a girl better than that._ He found he couldn't look down at her directly, all dejected as she was, else he would drown in those eyes of hers, her sadness swallowing him, adopting him. He wanted it to _stop._

The Hound was not accustomed to feeling things so strongly as he was then, wanting to leap to the girl's defence, to throttle the prick who'd taken the light out from behind her eyes, to wrap his arms around her and give her comfort. They scared him, these feelings, he could see in retrospect, and it was that fear, he judged, that made him so short with her that night. "Did you think Joff was going to take you himself?" Glancing over at her where she sulked beside him, he could not help but laugh, guilty as he felt for it. She looked so childish, then. "Small chance of that."

The night was slick with rain, all of it lighting up iridescent like motor oil as the lights mixed and bled in the water beading on the windshield. The road rumbled in his ears for several long minutes, headlights bright in the sea of cars around them. He could still feel the absence of her eyes, of her attention, and it gnawed at him. Sansa Stark's manners were never anything short of perfect—surely he'd thought she would subject him to some sort of small-talk, some trivial courtesy that would entertain him on this ride home, make it something for him to relish, a scrap fed to him from the table. But she was absent, silent. He'd begun to brood on it, letting it surround him in thick clouds like cigarette smoke, and so focused was he on his brooding that she almost gave him a start when her clear voice cut through the bitter silence he held inside him.

"You fought well tonight, Mr. Clegane," she said, measured and soundly.

His bitterness began to leak out of him then, through his mouth, like a wound. "You can keep your empty little compliments, girl...and your '_misters'._ I'm twenty-five. Don't make me feel old."

"I'm sorry if I've offended you, sir," she responded, sounding meek, hollow, route. It wore on his ever-delicate composure, the thin veil that restrained him from unleashing all the horror he knew he could be.

"Keep your '_sirs_' too. I'm a boxer, not a businessman," he spat. "I'm a thug. I'm no _sir_."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Clegane," she whimpered, clearly trying not to.

As he pulled up to the railroad crossing before them the lights began to blink and the barriers came down, and so he eased the vehicle to a stop, taking the liberty to turn, lean over, look at her. He she leaned a little away from him as he did, probably reflexively; he tamped down the anger it brought. "So I _fought well_ tonight, did I?" He questioned, cocking his head to the side and giving her what he meant to be a curious grin. "Or were you referring to the _other_ Mr. Clegane, hm? Did _he_ fight well, girl?"

She stared not quite blankly out the windshield.

"It's bad manners not to answer me, _girl_."

"He was a force to be reckoned with," she responded carefully. He gave a harsh laugh at that.

He gave a bark of rasping laughter. She'd pitched him into a state, he'd found, veil on his composure not yet broken but straining. He cracked his neck, trying to keep himself from saying the words that thickened the tip of his tongue. "Some cotillion instructor trained you well, I bet," he sneered. "You're like one of those little pink cockatiels they've got in the pet stores, aren't you? A pretty little talking bird, repeating all the pretty little things she's been taught to say..."

"That's unkind," she spat back, finally showing some teeth. It only spurred him on.

"_A force to be reckoned with..._True enough, I guess. He's always been 'a force to be reckoned with.'"

She crossed her arms and turned her attention back out her window, pointedly trying to ignore him.

"Look at me," he growled, the demand coming from somewhere unconscious, but once he'd made it, it suddenly seemed as if he'd never wanted anything so badly. "_Look at me!"_ He repeated, reaching out and slipping his hand up under her jaw, taking it with his thumb and forefinger for the first time and wrenching her around to face him, not as gently as he should have. "Go on, girl, take a good long stare. You know you want to. I've watched you turn your eyes away since Boston. Well fuck that. Take your look."

Her eyes danced over his face, avoiding his stare, spending undue time examining his left side, his good side, and glazing quickly over the ruin of his right. He watched as her eyes started to quiver with extra moisture, and somewhere inside him, probably felt remorse for it. "No pretty compliments for that, girl? Nothing nice you're supposed to say?" She didn't respond.

He couldn't have said why he continued. He felt mean-spirited, it might have been, though who he was taking it out on, the little bird or himself, he couldn't quite tell. "How do you think it happened, hm?" He asked in a rasping whisper, the train suddenly screaming into view on his left. He couldn't see it though—she was plugging up his eyes with her beauty. He envied her it. "I'll tell you what it was, girl. I was young, six or seven. It was the day after Christmas, and for some reason the power was out and we'd lit a fire in the fireplace to keep the house warm. I don't remember what I got that year, but it was Greg's gift I'd wanted. A Superman action figure, a string in his back you could pull, to make him talk..." he smiled wistfully, bitterly, flicking his tongue over his canine teeth. "Greg's five years older than me, the toy was nothing to him. He was near six foot tall, muscled like an ox and already playing on a junior varsity football team even though he was still in middle school, and he loved every minute of it."

He took a heaving sigh before he continued, sparing a glance at her face; she sat in rapt attention, staring at his mouth. _She's looking at you, dog._ He wished she would look in his eyes. "So I took his Superman, but there was no joy in it, I tell you. I was scared all the while, and sure enough, he found me in the living room that night, making Superman fly around in the flickering light of the fire. He never said a word. Just...picked me up under his arm and shoved the side of my face down in the burning coals while I _screamed_ and _screamed_. You saw how strong he is. Even then, it took my dad and two uncles to drag him off me."

He snickered a little, letting his hair fall in his face, shielding himself from her scrutiny. "Catholic priests preach about hell. What do they know? Only a man who's been burned knows what hell is really like."

The train had disappeared by then and the barrier was rising. The little bird had her eyes cast down, looking at his chest though he still held her jaw in his fingers. Reluctant, he released her and turned himself back to the road before them. The Red Keep building was not far, now. "My dad made me say my bedding caught on fire," he heard himself rasp, sounding sadder, more wistful than he meant to. "My uncles kept quiet. Greg kept playing football, and life went on like..._normal_." He exhaled sharply, grinding his teeth. "Dad didn't even take it away from him, the football. He didn't do _anything_ about it. Just made me lie to the doctors and pretended like nothing had even fucking happened..."

_You've never told anyone that before._ What had he done?

He felt her eyes on him then, but it suddenly seemed an intrusion. She could see him too clearly now, knowing what she knew. He felt like squirming, snarling, directing her attention elsewhere as he stopped to yield to another driver coming out of the parking lot of her building, but feather-light, her hand found his shoulder, sending a shudder through him that was cold and warm all at once.

"I...I don't know what to say..." she admitted. "He's...he's not a good man," she stuttered earnestly, her hand remaining static on his shoulder. The little bird was clearly not accustomed to speaking ill of people, laughably so, but that was not why he laughed at her. Her earnestness had gotten to him, really, infiltrated the core of him and fed him a scrap from a dish he'd never tasted before.

Sympathy. Compassion.

Desperate to hide the vulnerability she'd unearthed in him, he let out a bark of cruel, rasping laughter.

"No, pretty bird. He's _not a good man._"

She was blushing, her jaw set, her little hands curled into fists by her side, but she kept her dignity, the little bird did. He drew up to the crimson awning jutting out from the building, coasting to a stop, dreading her departure. "Thanks for the ride home, Clegane," she said, terse and cold. She unclipped her seatbelt and started to get out of the car, but an instinct made him reach for her, feeling an unfounded urge to plead with her to stay, to give him more of her compassion, her sympathy, her eyes, but knowing for the sake of his pride he could not.

"The things I told you tonight," he began, his voice catching in his throat. "If you ever tell Joffrey...your sister, your father...any of them..." _Don't sound so scared, Hound. Don't show her your fear._

"I won't," she swallowed, her brows creased and eyes wide, "promise."

"If you ever tell _anyone,_" he growled, flicking his eyes up to find hers just flitting away, the bitter taste of his missed opportunity making him tighten his grip on her wrist, "I'll kill you."

She only nodded hurriedly, her little wrist slipping from his fingers as she stepped back, shutting the car door and nearly running into the building behind her. He remained frozen another moment, fingertips still buzzing with the friction from her skin, shaking his head to himself. _At the rate I'm going,_ he thought, sullen, _you'll be the one to kill __**me**__, pretty bird._

He could not say how long he sat there in the empty car, engine running, interior smelling sweet where she'd been sitting in it, feeling for all the world as though his skin and muscle had all been ripped away, like he sat there all bleeding organs and broken bones, knowing she'd seen him like that. It wasn't just his ugliness she could see now, but what had _made_ him ugly too, both inside and out. Nobody except his family had ever known the truth of his burns, and his brother was the only one of them still breathing. He'd never wanted to tell anyone else—the story made him vulnerable, proved that he had weakness—and yet she'd gotten it from him without even asking. Maybe some silent part of himself had wanted to tell her, he mused, but couldn't for the life of him imagine _why_, feeling the effect of his divulgence shaking in all of his limbs. He felt nauseous. _Heartsick._

Where he'd only admired her beauty before, watching her idly like she was some shiny body in his field of vision, now he watched her like a hawk, knowing she _knew,_ that she was thinking about it...she'd _seen _him, and that left him paralyzed, horrified that _she_ of all people should understand his most intimate and crippling weakness, and yet he found he hungered for that connection he'd found in his confession to be resumed, for her to look at him and _see _him again, see his insides, what made him _him. _And he wanted to see her too, all that made her beautiful, and flawed, and more beautiful still because of those flaws...

Soon enough he came to understand them, though it was through his watching her, not any furtive confession of her own, that he drew his conclusions. She exposed herself to him as she exposed herself to the rest of the world, but it was only he who studied her, saw at what she did to herself, what she put up with. What she thought she deserved. And it broke his heart, watching her—frustrated him, wrecked every hope she gave him while concurrently bolstering it, tangling him up in all his thoughts and feelings like an insect caught in a spider web. Before long, he couldn't remember which way was up, what was day and what was night. The world beyond her was flat, gray, and she was the vivid color of dreaming, pacific-blue and copper-red.

It was infatuation, he decided, though that word felt like a dismissal. Infatuation seemed so superficial, a watered-down lust, but what he held for her was none of that. He could not explain it. He had no words for such a thing.

Love, the Elder Brother eventually made him call it. _Elder Brother...You could help me figure all this out, couldn't you?_ He was past due for a phone call, anyway.

Once she was finished with her shower he parted hastily with the little bird, making what rough and awkward apologies he could make on his own, resolved to make them over again once his mind was clear and his mentor had seen him through his thoughts. He'd probably been a bit dismissive, but the sooner he got the Elder Brother on the phone, the sooner he could make it up to her for ruining an otherwise perfect morning and set things back on track with the little bird. She would have forgiven him, if she understood. She might not have even resented his haste to begin with—she seemed to feel awkward too.

It occurred to him that he'd been distracted by their morning swims, sweet as they were, from what he'd set out to do for himself: make amends and right the wrongs he made by her. Their swimming mornings might have been the only thing she'd asked of him, but that didn't mean it was all he could do for her. She was a polite little bird after all, trained too well to ask for more than was polite, even things she might desperately need. For all he knew (as it certainly seemed) she was too trusting, too naive even to know what was good for her and what wasn't—and one thing definitely _not good _for her was Petyr Baelish.

She wasn't safe with Baelish—he knew that as truly as he knew his own name—but she refused to listen to him, too busy imagining him as some sort of saviour, some hero, to see that really he was no better than Joff or Don or Tyrion, just craftier. Sandor had all too clear of an idea of the little fucker's intentions for his little bird, and it boiled his blood; he was not himself an honourable man by anyone's standards, but at least he wanted to _protect_ her, seeking no more than her smile, her acceptance, in word and deed. (His desire for her he kept locked up tight in his thoughts, usually; this morning had been a fluke, a crack in his composure..._that's what you get for letting yourself have hope, dog. You start to see things that aren't there._..) He clung to it proudly, his compulsion to protect her. It almost made him feel like a good man, he thought, like the man she'd applauded in the ring the night of the boxing tournament. He'd never be as good as that, but every day he could try.

The Elder Brother had set him up with this little house, he remembered, pulling into his driveway, already coaxing his phone out of his pocket. _Maybe there are other houses he could find for me. Other places I could take her. Other places I could keep her safe..._

The phone rang twice.

"Well. If it ain't the prodigal son, callin' me up again."

"You know, _you _could make an effort to call _me, _if it matters to you so much," he rasped back, his voice low with warmth.

"Well, I don' wanna bother y' none. An' I know y' too well t' think you's callin' me up t' shoot the breeze wit' me, brother. What she on about this time?"

"It's me, this time, actually."

"Oh?"

"Well, it's me, but it's about her."

"There we go. That's more like what I's thinkin'."

"She thinks...well, long story short, we argue about how safe she is here. I don't like the guy she's staying with, but he's giving her a place to stay, at least, and that's more than I've got to offer. I was wondering if you knew of any other places like this little house you fixed me up with out here that I could take her? Somewhere...far away. But rural, like this."

The Elder Brother heaved a heavy sigh on the other end of the line, and Sandor felt a flash of hot worry cut his stomach like a knife. _You don't need his help, dog. It'd be nice, but you don't need it. You can steal away with her by yourself. You could do it. _"Here's what y' need t' know, brother Sandor..."

He wasn't really sure what he was expecting, after that, but it sure as hell wasn't what he heard next, as the Elder Brother launched into a convoluted, accented description of what sounded increasingly like a government conspiracy in which _he_ was at the crux with the little bird.

"So...hang on," he stopped the Elder Brother, understanding obscured by incredulity and confusion. "The two of us are wanted as _witnesses_..."

"Fo' a case that gon' break up the company-group, put all the bad people who wanna hurt her away."

"So she'll be safe? Once we testify, I mean."

"If all goes accordin' t' plan," he affirmed.

"And so...you and the FBI sent me after her to keep her _safe_, but didn't think it appropriate to _tell me that?!_"

"You din' need to know."

"The _fuck _I didn't!"

"Well, she 'live an' well, ain't she?"

"Well—_yeah,_ but—"

"Then you done all y' meant t' do."

"But she isn't _safe_ here, Brother. I told you. I've got a bad feeling about that guy she's staying with..."

"Why can't she stay wit' you?"

"Because of _him_," Sandor growled, getting annoyed. "He's pretending to be her Dad. He doesn't know I'm here."

"Who she stayin' wit'?"

"You wouldn't know him," Sandor sneered, sullen.

"Might be I do."

"Fucker's named Baelish."

"Bay-liss?!"

"Yeah. Petyr," Sandor responded shakily, furrowing his brow at the recognition he heard in the Elder Brother's voice. "You know him?"

The other end was silent for a second.

"Petuh Bay-liss got her?" He asked again.

"That's what I told you, yeah. And I've got a real bad feeling about it." _And you're not making it better right now, Brother..._

"An' you damn right, boy. He one o' the bad 'uns the FBI lookin' out fo', he done all the nasty law-work that let them Lannisters do what they done. They say they can't find 'im nowhere, like he gone an' disappeared on 'em. Puff o' smoke, an' all that."

"Well he's right here. Been here the whole time."

The Elder Brother sighed again, a strained sound. "You best go git her. Bring 'er back here. I call up the rest o' the task-force, tell 'em y' comin'. They go after him theyselves."

"I'm on it. I'll call you when we get on the road," Sandor barked, something hot and thin shooting up into his lungs from his stomach, spreading throughout his whole body. Adrenaline. _Hope._

"Godspeed, brother," the Elder Brother said.

"And you," he concluded, hanging up the phone with a jab of his thumb. "What'd I fucking tell you, little bird?" he said to himself.

He made a mad dash around the house to grab anything he might need for the road, stuffing it under his left arm and dumping it in the back seat before he hopped back behind the wheel and made for the little bird's nest, which he'd never actually seen, but practiced driving to on a number of occasions in anticipation of a situation like this. _Hope I don't run into Baelish..._

He was shaking his head to himself, bitter remorse hitting the back of his throat like bile. He'd never liked Baelish, even when they had been co-workers in all but name, both of them Lannister goons. There was little difference between Baelish and the Hound, really; Baelish had only worn nicer suits and won his fights with words, not fists. _Fucking hell...if the Elder Brother had only __**told me**__ what this was all about from the beginning...I would've gotten her out of here immediately. She could've been safe by now._ "Little fucker..." he sneered aloud.

Baelish could count himself lucky that he hadn't acted on his baser intentions yet—Sandor had seen her not an hour before, and she'd been safe and chipper as usual. What trouble could he have gotten into in the time since? _One finger. If he'd laid one finger on her this whole time, I'd break his fucking neck..._

As he drove to fetch her, his pulse raced with his swelling pride, any fear abating, atrophying; he had something to offer her now, some salvation, a way to actually _make her safe _instead of just playing at it, paddling after her in the pool. Amending what he'd let happen to her in preventing anything further, taking her to people who would give her justice. This was what he was made for. This was what he wanted for her.

He felt his phone buzzing in his pocket as he received a text, but he didn't have the patience to stop and look at it, not with potentially the most important thing he would ever do waiting for him at the end of the road. He drove as fast as he dared as it switch-backed up the mountain, climbing steadily higher until snaking off onto the little gravel driveway he knew to be hers.

Her car sat alone in the driveway. Baelish must have been out. It was like a dream come true.

_Imagine what her face is going to look like when you tell her, dog,_ he thought, picturing the wide grin she would give him, the way it would crinkle her pacific-blue eyes, the way she would wrap her arms around him when he would tell her he'd found a solution to their problems, letting him hold her like he had that morning. But it would be better than that: she wouldn't be crying this time, or if she was, it would be because he'd done something right for once, made her happy instead of scaring her. Maybe she'd even let him kiss her, this time. Maybe she'd kiss him for herself.

And they'd stop arguing once the Petyr question was eliminated, he guessed, which meant it'd be all flirting now, any time they spent together. He hoped she would still insist on swimming with him; he had half a mind to insist on it himself. And she'd get to wear her hair naturally again, that sensual, evocative red he missed so much, and go by her own name, her beautiful, musical name. _You'll be her hero, dog, making all the bad guys go away, just like you always wanted._ It was all so sweet it threatened to crush him. Had he ever wanted anything so much? Maybe. He doubted it.

He rapped sharply on the door thrice with his knuckle. "Open up, little bird, it's me," he called, the smile starting to ache in his cheeks. When he registered no sounds of stirring in the house he knocked again, more urgently, hope bleeding out of him, leaving him a bit more level-headed. "Little bird?"

But she still wasn't answering.

Worry and panic creeping over him like a fog, he drew his phone out of his pocket—sure enough, the text he'd ignored had been from Sansa's emergency phone. _Why didn't you look at it earlier, dog?! _It seemed to take an eternity to load; when her message finally appeared on his cheap little screen, he was hit with a bout of confusion.

All it said was "south".

When he navigated away from the text, though, he saw he still had one unread message. His throat beginning to close with worry, he opened the unread text, also from her.

"petyr knows youre here. said were going, dont know where. have my phone, will update when i can. im so sorry."

He thought his heart had stopped, his whole body cold and numb for what felt like a solid minute, though it could not have been more than a second or two. Then his rage came on him, rushing up into his bloodstream and possessing him, hot and heavy and familiar and _strong._ Spinning on his heel and spitting curses, he leapt back into Stranger and whipped out of her driveway._ I knew it. I knew it. I fucking knew it. I'll gut that fucker, I swear to God..._

South, she said, so south he drove.

At a stoplight he shoved his phone into the car charger, worried he would snap it clean in half in his haste. He was clumsy in his rage—he couldn't remember the last time it had been this powerful, this _hot_—and as soon as he had it set up charging he called the Elder Brother again. The rings could not have come more slowly, droning on infinitely in the monotone silence. He picked up after the third.

"He took her," Sandor growled without introduction. He realized he was shaking. "She's gone."

"He...y' mean _Bay_-liss?!"

"Yeah. I don't know where, but I'm off to find the fucker, wherever he went. If you want to call in your FBI buddies and tell them to get their asses out here, I'd be much obliged, 'cause if I find him before they do, I'm going to be in prison for the rest of my life..." He was snarling through his gritted teeth, his nostrils flared, knuckles white on the steering wheel, edging Stranger ten, fifteen miles-per-hour above the speed limit. "Because I am going to kill him. Fucking _kill_ him. I'll bash his fucking brains in...with my bare fucking hands, I will...He..._Fuck_...He fucking took..." why was his throat closing up? He felt like he was choking on something, hard and round, pressing on his adam's apple..._Oh God, little bird..._

"I'll tell 'em, brother. You watch yo'self now, son. Godspeed," he said. Sandor snickered darkly.

"If I get my way, Brother, God's gonna want no part in this."

"...As long's that's what's right," he said resolutely after a moment's hesitation, and hung up the phone.

_Of course it's right,_ Sandor thought, surprised by the Elder Brother's encouragement, exhaling sharply out his nose. _I told her nobody would hurt her, or I'd kill them. _

_I promised her. _

_I meant it._

Once he was on a straighter stretch of road he pulled his phone up to the wheel and typed five words to her.

"Keep safe. I'm coming. Promise."

And the road rolled on.

::

A/N: Sorry guys. This one was kind of a bitch. Wanna comfort me? That's what the review box is for! Don't forget to favourite if you're so inclined! See you on the flipside!


	14. Chapter 12

A/N: More like a series of mini-chapters, this. Don't forget the review box! And thank you all for your continued support—for your follows and favourites all! TW: Foreboding sense of impending abuse.

Friday, 9:04 AM

"What did you think he was going to do, Sansa? I mean _really. _Did you think he wouldn't sell you back to the Lannisters? To the Tyrells? Did you think he was going to keep your secret? _Did you!?"_

Petyr peppered the silence of the car with bouts of screeching, sometimes panicked, other times...well:

"Everyone says you're so much like your mother. Cat come again, they say. I should have known they'd be wrong. They didn't know her like I did. You're nothing like her. God, how ashamed she would be to see you now...you lying, ungrateful little bitch..."

_Don't let him shame you. He's got no idea what he's talking about, _Alayne insisted, her thoughts toned with disgust. Sansa sat in the passenger's seat of Petyr's car, arms crossed and silent, doing her best to be a picture of grace and dignity. She knew behaviour like his, how to take it on and pass it through her, without letting her touch it, really. She knew how to stay calm and keep herself from attracting his attention, but in the privacy of their mind, Alayne was irate.

_He's no better than Joffrey,_ she was shrieking, _he's worse. He's nastier. He's __**crazier**__. Sandor warned you! How could you be so __**stupid**__!?_

"I'm not stupid," Sansa whispered, entirely to herself. She had Sandor's phone on her to prove it.

Petyr had insisted on watching her pack, hovering in her doorway, already oscillating between "how-could-you-put-yourself-in-such-danger-I'm-just-concerned-for-your-safety" and "how-could-you-do-this-to-me-after-all-I've-done-for-you-you-lying-explitive-explitive-explitive" tirades.

"Don't you even _think_ about contacting him," Petyr had spat earlier, gripping her shoulder and getting in her face, "Not him, not anyone. Here, give me your phone. You've lost your privileges." And always the obedient girl her mother had raised her to be, Sansa had put the track phone Petyr gave her into the palm of his hand. The emergency phone Sandor had given her was still hidden in her bathroom, where she hoped Petyr would never have looked for anything, for any reason.

_I have to find some way to get to it. I have to tell him what's happening. _

_I have to bring it with me._

She'd rolled up shirts, jeans, sweatpants, underwear and socks and laid them in the bottom of the duffel bag he provided her with stiff, frightened motions, his eyes raking over her like fingernails, trying to expose the truths she would not let him see. She picked up Sandor's jacket too, and thought about packing it before pulling it almost defiantly over her shoulders, imagining that it was his strength she pulled over her, his protection. It made her feel better, she decided. Bolder.

"What is it?" Petyr snarled, glaring at her as she paused her packing for a moment. "What are you waiting for?!"

"I started my period today," she lied, trying to sound scandalized by telling him such a thing. "If...If we're going to be travelling, I need to change my tampon and pack some more." It was a perfect cover, really—it allowed her to escape him periodically, assured of her privacy, so she could make attempts to contact Sandor.

She spared a glance into his eyes, trying to look guileless and not betray her triumph as he grimaced. He waved her away.

"Go, then. Do what you have to do. But I'll be right here."

She nodded once, turning to scurry into her bathroom before she could smile or sigh with relief. Throwing open her tampon cupboard she ducked her hand into the box tucked at the back full of orange cardboard super-pluses and felt around for the smooth cheap plastic of Sandor's phone. She hadn't ever turned it on, before. She'd had no reason to.

_Shit,_ she thought, _it's going to make a sound when it powers on._ Biting her lip worriedly, she thumbed the _end_ button until the screen started to come to life, then did her best to smother the thing against her body, flushing the toilet at the same time and hurrying over to wrench the sink on to cover the noise.

_Please don't let him hear please don't let him hear please don't let him hear..._

The phone made a soft series of bleeps from where she'd smothered it between her thighs, and once it seemed like it had finished she scrabbled to silence it as quickly as possible. It tried to give her a series of frustrating '_WELCOME TO VERIZON_' messages, but Sansa would have none of it—she typed the quickest message she could explaining what was going on to Sandor, tucked the phone deep into her jacket pocket, stashing it's charger back in the super-plus box and jamming it full with handfuls of extra tampons from the other boxes to muffle any sound the charger might make knocking around.

"Have you got...everything you need, then?" Petyr asked, sounding embarrassed and irritated at the same time. She tucked the box into the bag as naturally as she could, throwing her shower things in on top before telling him she was ready to go. It took all her strength to keep herself from grabbing her phone tightly in her fist, clenching it steady, holding it out of sight. It was her only hope right now, it seemed.

_He's your only hope, you mean._

It had been about an hour since then, the long state highway snaking alongside a great blue lake, smooth and true as the stained glass in the church she'd attended with her Mom as a girl. It dipped in and out of view between clumps of tall pine trees, little jutting hills or spits of land that would obscure it for a minute or two before bringing it back to her, almost like a promise. It had disappeared for about ten minutes, leading her to a moment of panic, but it was back now, state highway hugging it as closely as she wanted to hug it herself. If she could find a map, she would be able to find this lake, she hoped. She would be able to know where he's taking her. Where she is now. She imagined herself as a little blue dot, like her iPhone GPS would have shown her, if she still had it.

It'd been a long time since she'd thought of her iPhone, the one left behind in her old life, in Sansa Stark-Lannister's last hotel room. She took a minute to remember it, slick plastic pink case, innocuous picture of her late puppy "Lady" as her background, the high scores on doodle jump and fruit ninja accredited to "brandit 2000" and "riky stark," the only proof she yet had that her baby brothers had once been breathing people. Once, she might have thought she would have missed it more. But Alayne was not accustomed to dependence on expensive gadgets—the flip phone Petyr had given her was more than she'd ever known. And no amount of time could erase her brother's names, faces, memories from her heart.

The signs along the highway told her they were driving though Polson, Montana. She paid acute attention to the signs now, so she could tell Sandor where they were going. The last text she'd sent him had only said "south". She could only hope he'd taken the same highway, that he wasn't too far behind them...

...that he was coming after them at all.

_You know how he feels about Petyr. He wouldn't leave you alone with him._

_But what if he's ignoring me? After I rejected his kiss...stupid fucking—__**why**__ did I do that!?_

She was so busy hoping that she hardly paid attention to Petyr.

"Sansa! Are you listening to me?!"

"Yessir," she chirped automatically, trying not to jump.

"Answer me, then. Did you really think he was going to keep your secret?!"

_A little bit of honesty will keep you from sounding fake,_ Sansa thought, sighing sadly. _You can't afford to sound fake right now. Joffrey would accept fake, but Petyr is smarter than he was._

"I really wanted to think so."

"Why _him,_ Sansa?"

"He was nice to me, before. Nicer. Than Joff's other guards, I mean."

"Mr. Oakhart always seemed to be nice to you. Looked to be sweet on you, even."

"He hit me, though," she sighed, leaning against her window. "Just like everyone else did."

"...Except Clegane."

"Except Clegane," she agreed. "And besides. Clegane doesn't work for them anymore. He quit."

"That doesn't mean he wouldn't go on a special mission to get his job back, Sansa. Honestly. You've got to start thinking one step ahead of people, or you'll never have the life you want," he said earnestly, looking over at her, taking one hand off the wheel to brush her cheek with the pad of his thumb. Under his touch, her skin crawled.

A few minutes later Petyr's mood had fouled again, though he seemed to have tired of shouting and had lapsed into a stewing, sullen silence that left Sansa much to her own devices. She resisted the urge to watch him, hoping for a moment where he would seem distracted enough that she might spare a glance at her phone. It was too high a price to pay if she were caught.

"I need to change my tampon again," she announced frankly to his silence, hoping to shock him into permission.

"Didn't you just change it an hour ago?!" He asked angrily.

"I did," she lied, a nervousness stirring in her stomach, an embarrassment, a panic. _Do not balk, Sansa. _Alayne whispered to her._ Here, take some of my audacity_. "But it's my first day, and my flow is going to be pretty heavy. Don't want to chance me bleeding all over the car or anything."

That did it. He grimaced like before, looking out at the road again. "Alright. But we'll find a public bathroom. I can't trust you going into a store or anything," he said, descending into unintelligible muttering that probably consisted mostly of curses. Sansa found she didn't care, that she wasn't cut by his speech at all. _Perhaps I have taken some of your audacity, Alayne._

Once Petyr had pulled into a lakeside park he deemed remote enough and set himself up at a picnic table, wrapping himself around his phone, Sansa made a show of fetching a tampon from her bag in the back seat, clenching her fingers around the cheap plastic in her pocket as she stalked off towards the restrooms that were so ghastly as to make her skin crawl, even from yards away. Still, she holed up in one gratefully, locking it tight and standing rigid in its putrid confinement, careful to keep herself from touching anything as she whipped her phone out and snapped it open.

Her heart was flooded with warmth at the sight of a text from Sandor. She scrambled to open it.

"Keep safe. I'm coming. Promise."

She was almost giddy with it. _Oh, Sandor!_ She almost wanted to scream, biting down on her lips instead, pressing the phone against her rapidly-beating heart.

After a moment, she hastily typed her response:

"thank you. truly. in polson, mt. took 93 south. no idea where were going still, but its good to know ive got you."

She wanted to write more, but didn't know what to say. She'd said everything useful...what more was there? _I should have let you kiss me,_ she thought she could write, but that was hardly a sentiment to express over text...

She kicked open the door and made her way back to where Petyr sat. He gave her an empty smile, reflexive, more akin to his grimace without the laughter in his eyes. They loaded back into the car, Petyr taking a moment to set his phone up on the dash, where it said in that crystal-clear, dead-monotone voice that all GPS devices seemed to have: "Journey, to—Havre Train Station—Turn right, onto—_Main_ Street." It put special emphasis on the word _main_.

A bolt of electricity ran through her veins, from her throat to her toes. _I know where we're going. I know where we're going!_ It felt as though she had suddenly been granted a great power, this knowledge.

"I hope your—you're _covered_," he said the word carefully, packing it with all the words he couldn't bring himself to think about, "because we've got three hundred miles between us and our next stop."

She felt herself paling, the high from her electric knowledge all gone, leeched from her. _That means three hundred miles between you and the next time Sandor knows where you are._ The odds that he would just _guess_ the route they took were slim—she knew she had to get word to him, somehow, without a bathroom stop to cover it. And she had to do it _now_.

_This is a huge risk,_ Sansa thought, coming up with a shoddy plan to use her phone in the car.

_But it's a risk you've got to take,_ Alayne prompted. Sansa steeled herself, cooled her blood, took a breath.

"That port-a-potty was icky," she said, probably sounding too lighthearted, too childish. "I need to get some hand sanitizer from my bag, okay?" Petyr nodded his assent and she clambered into the back, pulling her bag right behind his seat so he couldn't watch her in the rear-view mirror, pulling her phone out from her pocket and opening a new message with her right hand as she used her left to open the bag. _Please don't notice please don't notice please don't notice,_ she thought, plunging both hands and the phone into the bag, rummaging around loudly while she franticly typed "havre train station", hitting send and closing her phone, tucking it back into her pocket.

"Cat was never such a conniving, stupid, lying little slut as you," he grumbled, giving her a horrible start at first, until she realized this was just him giving voice to another train of awful thoughts; he hadn't noticed her phone. _Thank God..._ "I took her virginity, you know. But you don't even have that to give to me, do you? Dirty little slut...Did you give it to the dog? Or did Joffrey strip you of it?"

A shiver ran through her body, deep in the marrow of her bones. As if he hadn't already, he was starting to really scare her now—he'd never spoken so crudely before. But he'd acted crudely (and the memory made her gag, his tongue like a flopping fish in her mouth, taking her sanctity, breaking it) and she could only hope he wasn't stepping up his game across the board.

Alayne wanted to lash out, wanted to pull the sleeve of her jacket tight around his neck until he choked, gouge his eyeballs out with her thumbs, kick him in the balls again and again and again...

_Keep cool, damn you,_ Sansa hissed at her. _He's a dangerous person. You don't know the first thing about self defense. Wait for Sandor. He'll do for him._

_Yeah, okay, _Alayne spat back, _but what if he tries something first? What if he pulls off onto some side road and rapes us? I mean, fuck Sansa, listen to him!_

"I guess it doesn't matter, really. It'll just be you and me from now on, either way."

Sansa had spent too many months with Joffrey to think it prudent to respond. She wanted to vomit, to give in to Alayne, let her take care of them. _But no. I've got to wait. Sandor will hurt him. He promised._

Still sweating with the fear he suspected something, she pulled a small bottle of Purell out from her bathroom bag and gave it a good squeeze, slicking it over her hand, stinging her eyes with its fumes.

Then again, maybe it was no fault of the hand sanitizer's that she felt tears sting in her eyes.

_Please hurry, Sandor. Please, please, please..._

::

Friday, 9:11 AM

He almost drove right into the lake when his phone buzzed again. "Fucking hell..." he grumbled, regaining control of his nervous system and steering Stranger onto the shoulder of the road, pulling his phone out of his pocket. Never in his life had he thought he'd be so startled by a goddamned text message.

"thank you. truly. in polson, mt. took 93 south. no idea where were going still, but its good to know ive got you."

He gave a little sigh of relief, and a smile for a girl who couldn't see him. He was on 93 south—though as far as he knew, it was the only southbound road out of Kalispell. But that was something to be thankful for.

_Polson, Polson..._

He'd seen signs for Polson—last one had said forty miles, but it'd been a few minutes since then. _Thirty miles from here, I'll bet._ He made to text the little bird, tell her so, when another text from her popped up on his screen.

"Havre train station," it said.

_Where the fuck is that?_ He wanted to ask, _is that where you __**are**__ or where you're __**going**__?!_ But she had just said she'd be in Polson. She couldn't be _far_ from Polson, then, if he'd gotten those texts so close together. And even if the first text had been delayed, and she was at this "Havre train station" right now, simply because of how much time she'd been missing, it couldn't be far.

_I need a fucking map._

He urged Stranger back onto the highway again, gravel spinning out under his tires. The blue of the lake to his left was almost the same blue as her eyes.

He wouldn't let that make him sad. Just determined.

Friday, 9:40 AM

Sandor glanced down at the fuel gage just in time—Polson's meagre downtown was behind him, and he'd kept following 93 south as it turned away from the lake, blue like her eyes, diverting his frustration to the lack of fucking signage pointing him towards Havre. _They couldn't have gotten far,_ he kept telling himself, but suddenly he wasn't so sure. What if Baelish had a plane? A helicopter? A boat? She would have told him if she'd gotten on a boat. Besides, it was a train station she mentioned. There were no railroads around here, though, as far as he could tell.

The next gas station he found looked like it belonged in a faded photograph, all antiquated, rust spots and peeling paint. It didn't smell right either, more like dust and cigarettes than gas. _Forgive me for this, ol' boy,_ he thought, pulling out the only "regular" pump that wasn't "out of order" and placing it gingerly into Stranger's tank. Numerous handwritten signs on the pumps told him the establishment was "CASH **ONLY**," and so while his precious Cadillac filled with god-knows-what-sort of sludge, he ducked inside to pay. _Remember—you need a map._

The convenience store was even worse than he'd expected, based on the exterior: brown-green stains in the drop ceiling and linoleum floor, countertop yellowed and peeling, dim fluorescent lights giving the whole room the look of submersion in murky lake water. It smelled, too, like piss and Clorox and smoke, and something else, alcohol, rotting food, cologne.

"Seventy bucks of gas," he heard himself rasp to the old man behind the counter, who, to his credit, did not seem put off by his scars. "And an atlas."

"Gas, we got. Atlases, no. You're gon' have t' go on down to the Wal-Mart if you want yourself atlas o' sorts."

Sandor stopped counting out his cash to fix the man with a disbelieving glare. "What sort of fucking convenience store doesn't sell road atlases?"

"You want your gas or not?"

Sandor huffed, laying down the bills with steady fingers, letting them flop limply onto the counter before the man. "Well then can _you_ tell me how to get to the train station in Havre?"

"_Havre?_" the man drawled.

"That's what I said. It's not far from here, I think."

"Th' only Havre I know is 'bout three-hundr'd miles from here, son."

The shock of it made his chest tighten for a moment. "Three_ hundred _miles?" Sandor cried. _Maybe Baelish __**does**__ have a helicopter..._

"That's what I said," the man said pointedly with a lazy glare.

After sputtering for a moment, Sandor managed to make himself ask _one more time. _"You've got no maps? Not one fucking map in this place?"

The clerk laughed. "You said _atlas_, son, not map." He pointed a thick finger towards a back corner of the store, where Sandor found a wire rack of folded yellow paper packets. _Oh for fuck's sake,_ he kept himself from screaming as he grabbed the biggest one labelled "The Northwest: Washington, Oregon, Idaho, Montana and Wyoming" and tossed down the cash to cover it, muttering not even an impolite goodbye before stalking back to Stranger and spreading the thing out on the dash. _All I can hope is that the bastard doesn't spirit her away to Canada. _He'd have to hop the border, then. _And I'd be without a fucking map again._

East and north of Kalispell, Havre was situated about halfway across the state. From the looks of it, it'd be faster to drive back to Kalispell and catch highway 35 east, turning on to Montana 206 until it turned into highway 2, and ride that hard, straight into Havre. He hoped the station would be clearly marked, not too difficult to find.

Before pulling out of the godforsaken little gas station, he drew his phone up to the steering wheel again.

"I'll meet you there, little bird," he typed.

::

Friday, 2:25 PM

Most of the last five hours had lapsed in cramped silence.

It made her feel vulnerable, she decided.

At least when Petyr was ranting and raving she could tell what he was thinking. She had no idea, now. The radio had cranked out metallic and fuzzy renditions of awful country songs that did nothing to improve her mood. All she really felt was sick—with worry and anticipation and dread and a whole bunch of other things she didn't have words for.

It felt like standing out on the edge of a diving board, this drive did. A diving board a thousand feet above the pool. She could feel her toes curling over the edge of a precipice, jutting out bravely over...over what? Looking down, all she saw was swirling clouds, thick with horrible, godless possibilities, all hoping to ensnare her, ruin her, break her spirit and soul and song.

Or maybe they were just clouds. And really she was looking down at her hands, not any swirling clouds, limp in her lap on top of her crossed legs, her blue jeans, cuffed safely in the sleeves of Sandor's jacket. _Safely. I have to think that I am safe. Otherwise it'll never be true._

Sansa forced her chin up, imagining Sandor was there to do it for her, sweeping her eyes over the town without really trying to look at it. Even blanketed in thick white snow, the town seemed as American as apple pie. She could almost see it in the fifties, pastel-colored thunderbirds parked along the curb of the straight, flat street, blonde girls in ponytails and poodle skirts arm-in-arm with perfectly charming and handsome young men. Had she wanted that, once? To be arm in arm with some perfectly charming and handsome young man? She'd had that, years ago it seemed, but the charming and handsome young man was a cruel monster, really, and the older man, his shadow, with the monstrous scars and cruel words, _he_ was the one who was true and sweet. He was the one she wanted now. _Oh, how the world inverts itself._

She hauled her duffel bag out of the back seat and swung it over her shoulder, trying to screw her face up into something that resembled normal. Or happy. Or anything, really, that wasn't panicked, afraid, vulnerable. She took long strides, trying to stretch her legs as she followed Petyr into the diminutive train station, flying the stars and stripes, the blue Montana flag with its crest, and the Canadian maple leaf over a pair of statues, seemingly at odds. An antique steam train lingered behind them, like a backdrop. It made quite the droll tableau, so out of place in her tumult that it shocked her for a moment.

The opportunity might present itself for her to pace for a time, she thought, long strides like these that stretched her muscles, if they had to wait a while for the train (and she hoped, oh she hoped they did. Sandor couldn't be _that_ far behind them. He couldn't. He'd find her, if they had to wait. He'd make it. It would be over soon, then.) but she figured Petyr would have planned this better than that, whether he knew they were being followed or not.

She took the opportunity to stand by the bags while Petyr bought the tickets, relishing the feeling of her feet directly beneath her hips, planted on the dusty tile floor, bearing all her weight as they should. He seemed like he would be engaged with the ticket office long enough for her to turn and see if Sandor had texted her back. Surreptitiously she turned her back on Petyr, ears pricked for his departure from the ticket window, and withdrew her phone.

"I'll meet you there, little bird."

_Good,_ was all she could think for a second. _I need to get away, text him back_, and then _I should wait until I know which train we're taking._ She folded her phone back over her index finger and tucked it back into her pocket where it belonged_._

Petyr came back, his lips twitching as if he couldn't decide whether to smile or frown. Wordlessly, he extended her ticket to her, for one Empire Builder train number 7, with passage to Seattle, Washington, which would arrive at 10:25 AM on Saturday, November 24th, 2012. Departure time was 3:04. Boarding time was 2:49. PM.

_That's like twenty minutes from now._

_Shit, that's twenty minutes from now._

_Shit._

She thrust the ticket back into his hand. "I really need to change my tampon, Dad." Hoisting her duffel bag back over her shoulder for the sake of the illusion, she hurried off towards the bathrooms without waiting for his permission. She couldn't afford it. Sandor had twenty minutes. Maybe less.

::

Friday, 2:31 PM

His phone was _ringing._

_It could be the Elder Brother,_ he told himself. But it _wasn't._ He didn't want it to be.

"Hello?" He answered, his rasping voice breaking with his stress.

"Sandor!" a little bird on the other end of the line chirped, clear as a bell, and as sweet and high. "Ohmigod, it's so good to hear you!"

"You too, little bird, you too. Are you alright?"

"For now, yeah," she said, sounding out-of-breath, uncertain. There was an echo. She was probably in a bathroom somewhere. "We're at the train station. Where are you?"

"East Jesus Nowhere," Sandor snorted. He'd passed a little spit of a town called Hingham three miles back, but he figured that would mean less to her than it had to him. Which was nothing. "Last sign I passed said fifty miles between me and you, little bird, but I'm driving faster than I should, and that was ten minutes ago."

"Okay," she breathed. "Okay, well, we're supposed to be on a train that leaves at three, headed towards Seattle."

"You're headed _towards_ Seattle or getting off at Seattle?" he inquired. _That sounded harsh. Don't be harsh with her, dog, she's probably in a very fragile state._

"Both," she gulped. _I'm sorry,_ he wanted to say, _please don't be scared._

"Okay. I'm coming for you, little bird, don't worry," he said instead.

"I'm trying not to," she said with a nervous little laugh. "I kind of can't help it, though. Petyr's being a real creep."

"In what way?!" he barked, his blood running hot again, a spike of adrenaline hitting his veins. He toed the gas pedal a little harder.

"He's just saying creepy stuff, but I'm not sure how long it's gonna stay that way," she said, her voice timid, tremulous. "Like...he keeps calling me a slut...telling me about this one time he fucked my mom and...and I think he wants to fuck me too..." She almost sounded like she was crying. He'd seen and heard his dose of the little bird's fear before, and though he thought he'd always felt this way about her, it'd never cut him_ this deep_ to hear her so scared._ I'll gut him, I swear to you little bird...no—I'll rip out his guts and strangle him with them._

"Don't you let him, little bird," Sandor growled, bristling. "Don't you let him anywhere _near_ you."

"Believe me, I'm trying...but...I just don't think my 'letting' him is part of the question, you know?" She was crying now. He could hear it. _Make it stop, dog. Make her crying stop._

"Any hurt he gives to you, I swear to you Sansa, I'll give him back a thousand times over."

He was met with silence, another voice in the background, then a little sniffle, near. "Thank you," she whimpered.

It almost made him want to smile. Even in the face of terror, the little bird still chirped her courtesies. _Nothing will ever rob that of her,_ he thought, hoping, _nothing will ever break her spirit. Not Joffrey. Not Petyr Baelish. Not Cersei._

_Not me._

She gave a little gasp, and then he heard, "just a minute, Dad!" in a voice he knew to be more panicked than it sounded.

"Got to go. Drive safe," she whispered into the mouthpiece.

"You too," he said, though she wasn't driving, though she'd hung up the phone already. _You be safe, little bird._

He was doing ten miles per hour over the limit now. He didn't give a shit about legality. There was a caged bird who needed freeing, after all.

_I'll gut that fucker I swear to God..._

3:03 PM

Stranger came screaming into the parking lot, pulling into a handicapped spot before jerking to a stop. He launched out of the driver's seat and barrelled for the doors, making as fast as he could for the platform where the train still lingered, _thank God,_ stationary. It was due to leave any second now. _You would have gotten here with minutes to spare if you hadn't nearly run out of fucking gas again. Stupid dog._

_WHERE IS SHE!?_ He wanted to scream. _**SANSA!**__ LITTLE BIRD! Where are you?! _He started to jog the length of the train, turning hard left, looking in all the high tinted windows for beautiful alabaster faces, little heart attacks in black hair dye, peeking out, hopeful.

_It doesn't matter if you see her,_ he thought, _just that she sees you. And gets the fuck off this train._ He started to swing his arms, overwhelmed by panic. She was so close. _He_ was so close.

A whistle blew, sharp, loud, cold. The train lurched to a crawl. His stomach turned over.

_No...__**no**__ no no no no..._

"Sansa!" he couldn't help but cry out, "SANSA!"

But the train picked up speed. For a moment he considered running after it, leaping onto the caboose, breaking in and finding her, like he'd seen people do in movies. _Life isn't like the movies, though,_ he thought to himself, _how many times did you have to tell her that?!_ He'd be no good to her dead, anyway, and that's what he would be, if he tried a stunt like that.

The train would make other stops, he knew. He vowed to be at every one. To chase this train into the sunset and past it, until he held her in his arms again. He would. Something dripped warm onto his cheek.

"_Little bird,_" he whimpered. She didn't hear him though. Not her or God or anybody.


	15. Chapter 13

Friday, 2:34 PM

"ALAYNE?!" came a call from the door. She gasped, yanked from her weeping by the man who caused it.

"Just a minute dad!" She pulled the phone close to her mouth, whispering as quietly as possible to the man on the phone, "got to go. Drive safe."

She closed the phone and hurried to the sink, wrenching the cold knob and splashing the pink tears from her eyes, trying to steel herself against her fear. Behind her, a woman in clacking high-heels was drawling a tedious story to someone on her phone. _Those shoes are horrid,_ she had thought upon seeing them from beneath the stall beside her.

"It's only Petyr," she murmured to herself, quietly, so the other woman wouldn't hear, deciding to wash her hands, nails scratching at the back of her knuckles with a vengeance, as if she could scrub him away. "You've dealt with worse...and Sandor is _coming. _He won't let you down." She believed herself. She had to.

He was glaring at her, suspicious, when she emerged. "I heard voices in there. Who were you talking to, _Alayne?!_" he snarled, grabbing her bicep and pulling her closer. In her jacket pocket, her fingers clutched tightly her phone, so hard almost that she thought she might break it.

"Just the other woman in the stall beside me," Sansa quailed, trying to come up with convincing detail, "I said liked her shoes. I'm sorry. I just wanted to have a pleasant exchange with someone. I'm _sorry_. I didn't tell her anything, Dad—please let me go, you're hurting me," she whimpered.

His fingers uncurled from her arm but his eyes stayed just as vicious. "You expect me to believe _that?! _That's the weakest lie I've ever heard," he spat.

"_Please,_ Dad, I promise you—they looked like Chanel, really good knock-offs...I was just trying to be nice..."

He was still pinning her there with his eyes, her arm yet held in his death-grip, when the other woman pushed out of the bathroom. Like an act of God, she gave them a polite little nod and smile, and said something like "have a pleasant journey."

"You too," Sansa chirped, trying to sound chipper. Petyr stared after the woman in disbelief for a moment before turning his attention back to her. His expression had softened, he held out his hand.

"Come child, we've got a train to catch."

_Thank God, thank God! It worked! Oh, thank God..._She was so relieved she could have kissed the woman. _You can't be so reckless next time. Thank God it worked. That was so close...!_

The train came in minutes and Petyr ushered her onward, herding her into a window seat on the side opposite the platform, boxing her in by sitting on the aisle seat beside her. What if Sandor came out onto the platform?—she wouldn't see him from here, if he did, but Petyr might. That would ruin everything. And even if she did manage to catch sight of him before Petyr did, he would catch on pretty quickly if she went leaping over him and sprinting off the train. Like as not, she'd make it no further than his lap. She had to plan some way to get off the train before it left, without Petyr catching her or doing anything stupid.

Any plans she could make, though, would start with her having the aisle seat.

"Do you want the window, Dad? I'm sure you're tired after all that driving—it'd be easier to sleep against that than against me..."

"Oh, I won't be sleeping any, Alayne," he said coldly, giving her a slimy little smile, malicious and calculating. "Wouldn't want anyone to come by and kidnap you while I was out. This way, I can make doubly sure that you're kept _safe._" The last word was a hiss as his hand found a way to her knee, patting it carefully, the heel of his hand coming to rest on her mid-thigh. She wanted to vomit. She shivered instead.

She watched in sullen silence the clock she could just barely see across the aisle and out the platform-side window, the minute hand sliding past 2:50, 2:53, 2:57, with still no sign of Sandor. An idea occurred to her, giving her a bit of a start and twisting her insides with enduring embarrassment and disgust, but she knew it would be her only chance. The clock kept turning, 2:59, 3:00, 3:02...

"All aboard!" The conductor called, and she sprung into action.

"I forgot to put in a panty-liner," she whispered to Petyr, reaching to gather her cover materials from her bag. He went rigid, scowling, but pressed his hand back onto her knee, hard.

"Wait a minute, sweetheart. Wait until the train starts moving."

"I can't, Dad. I can feel myself bleeding through."

"Well whose fault is that, hmm? You can wait one minute, I'm sure."

"I really can't, Dad," she insisted, starting to panic. _This is my chance. I have to get away from him __**now.**__ I have to get off this train!_

"Well, you're going to. I'm not letting you out of my sight so long as this train is stopped."

She tried to look offended. "You don't think I would run away from you, do you?"

"It's a thought, yes, but I'm more worried the Tyrells will find you. Or that dog. _Why_ didn't you _tell_ me about him, Sansa?" He whispered in her ear, digging his fingers into the flesh around her knee. "You've put yourself in terrible danger. Do you know how much it would hurt me to lose you, after losing your mother too?"

"Dad, please. Nobody's going to find me here. This is really an emergency," she said coolly. He stiffened beside her.

"You're waiting until the train moves. End of discussion."

She felt her face falling, a lump forming in her throat. _Don't let him see you so upset, _Alayne called to her. Sansa turned to face out her window, squeezing her eyes shut, trying not to cry or let her heart break. She almost couldn't help it. Almost.

Just as the train started to move and her stomach turned over, hopeless, she thought she heard her name on the wind, a rasping cry. She whipped around to look, but could see nothing out the window. Petyr didn't seem to have heard it, looking down into her eyes instead. "One more minute, sweetheart. Then you can take care of whatever you need to." _I probably just imagined it. He said he was fifty miles away half an hour ago, anyway. Even if he was speeding, he couldn't have gotten here that fast..._

She turned her face back to the window, squeezing her eyes shut again, swallowing the lump in her throat, but it was no use. Her eyelashes started to wet. _I'll never get away from him. Never._

::

Friday, 3:05 PM

His frustration turned to fury as he stormed back into the train station and up to the ticket counter, demanding with a growl the schedule for the rest of the stops of the train. He didn't see the woman behind the counter, only her pearl-pink acrylic nails like flesh-stained talons as they slid over a charcoal pamphlet that looked like it wanted to be vintage, though between the high-gloss and crisp folds in the paper, couldn't possibly be. He ripped it open as he stalked back to Stranger, trying with all his might not to feel like he'd failed his little bird as completely as he knew he had.

"Bastard doesn't deserve to be gutted or strangled," he growled to himself, "he should burn. Fucking _burn._ Here on earth, no waiting for hell to cook him..." He spread his map open on the dashboard and nearly turned the car upside-down in search of a pen. Once he found one he pulled the cap off with his teeth, getting it going with a frantic scribble on the back of his hand before combing through the pamphlet and circling each stop the train would make west of Havre: Shelby and Cut Bank and Browning and Essex, West Glacier National Park, Whitefish, Libby and Sandpoint. Spokane. Ephrata. Wenatchee. Leavenworth. Everett and Edmonds and Seattle. _Whitefish—isn't that just north of Kalispell?_ From the look of the timetable, it was the next place the train would actually _stop_, too, instead of just passing through, letting people on and off. But it didn't arrive in Whitefish until almost nine o'clock—he couldn't leave her with the little fucker for that long. So which of the intermediate stops could he get to the quickest?

_If you had a phone with a GPS, this wouldn't be a problem,_ he thought to himself in as snarl. His phone started to buzz on the dash then—he picked it up before the first ring was finished.

"Bird?!"

"It's me, it's me, I'm alright."

"I'm so sorry, little bird, I got here right as the train was pulling away," he gushed, feeling his heart wrench a little with his admission.

"No-no-no! You're alright! He was literally holding me in my seat until the train was out of the station—I couldn't have gotten away anyway."

"I'll be at every stop just in case you ever can. I promise."

"No, Sandor, don't do that; if he wouldn't let me up then, he's not going to let me up any other time. Crap, I don't even know where the train is stopping between here and Seattle..."

"Well, I've got a timetable here..."

"We need to be quick. So he won't suspect anything," she peeped suddenly, like she herself had just remembered.

"Okay; the train stops for twenty minutes in Whitefish—do you think you can get him to let you go in and get a magazine or something?"

"It's worth a try. I'll let you know how it pans out."

"Okay. I'll be there."

"Okay."

"Okay." The line went dead. He felt completely helpless. _Helpless, _he sneered internally, _you're not the one being kidnapped by a madman,_ he reminded himself bitterly, starting up Stranger and turning to back out of his parking space. _It'd be better if it was me in her position,_ he countered himself._ If it was me, I'd be able to get away._

_If it was me, it wouldn't matter so fucking much._

He followed the same highway back through East Jesus Nowhere, the tranquillity of the dry, open fields and the stoic mountains jutting up from the earth mocking his panic. It was all so fucking placid, taking its own sweet time stretching out towards the setting sun, the horizon, where he would find her. And salvation. Both.

At about 3:30 his phone rang again—it wasn't her, he could feel it—lazily, he coaxed his phone from his pocket, drew it up to his ear. "Hello?"

"Brother Sandor. How y' gettin' on? Did y' grab 'er?"

"No," he groaned, slinking low over the steering wheel to steady it with his elbow, using his free hand to rub his face in frustration. "I got to Havre just as the train was pulling out."

"Aww hell. Too bad, son."

Sandor could only snicker darkly in response._ Don't fuckin' remind me._

"Well listen son, if y' look in yo' glove compartment, should be a 'mergency Mastercard taped up t' the top on th' inside. Y' see it?"

"Uh..." Sandor glanced warily at his glove compartment and turned his eyes back to the road. "Yeah?"

"Good. Now y' take that on out, go down t' the Kalispell air-port an' get yo'self a ticket on t' Seattle, now son. Me an' the team, we gon' meet y' there, all of us gon' go on down t' the train station n' wait for 'em to show."

Sandor scowled. The train wouldn't get to Seattle until ten-thirty the next morning. That was thirteen hours longer than he currently intended leaving her, and even as it stood he felt he was leaving her too long. And besides—if Petyr was sneaky enough to drive east to take a westbound train, he would be sneaky enough to book passage to Seattle and get off at an intermediate station. Or what if the little bird decided she'd had enough? Saw an opportunity to bolt, leaving him behind, jumping dramatically from a moving train into a strange old western town? He wouldn't be far behind her, he vowed, and it was a vow worth keeping.

"Is that a suggestion, Brother, or instruction?"

"I'd say instruction, son, but as y' like..."

He didn't even spare it a thought. "I'm sticking to the train tracks then, in case anything happens and I can get her off before. I'll see you once I've got her back, Brother. Not before."

"If yo' sure, son..."

"I am," he said tersely, hanging up the phone.

There was no place he'd rather be in the world than following after her, he told himself, save by her side. If he was being honest with himself, though, he knew was hungry for her gratitude, her relief, desperate to keep the heroism of saving her to himself—and he owed it to her, he felt, heroism and gallantry and dedication and all, after all that he stood by and watched her endure. The only way he could absolve his sin of passivity was to actively prevent her any hurt that he possibly could forever onward, however trivial or small. Getting her away from the little fucker would be _really _making his amends, giving her the sort of protection that that rightfully trivialized morning swims and IHOP charades. He might just be able to live with himself, if he saved her from this.

_When_ he saved her from this...

(_"...he's just saying creepy stuff..." _the ghost of her voice whispered to him, a siren song, a haunting._ "...and I think he wants to fuck me too..." _He swallowed hard at the thought that he might be too late.)

..._if_.

::

Friday, 7:26 PM

Sansa sighed. Again.

It seemed to her she'd forgotten how to breathe, outside of sighing. Sighing and yawning. She yawned too.

"If you're tired, baby, then go to sleep," Petyr murmured. His cheek had come to rest on her head some hours ago, his right arm snaked around her waist, clutching her to his side. The embrace would have embarrassed her even if they had been lovers—and despite whatever he might have set in his head, they were most certainly _not_ lovers. And never would be.

"I'm not tired, Dad, I'm dead bored," she sneered, sighing again. Her stomach growled, almost as if on cue, she would have thought, if it hadn't been growling for a while now. She hadn't eaten anything all day. Petyr had refused to stop. "Bored and hungry."

"Do you want to go to the meal car?" He asked, sitting up off her, his arm relinquishing a few inches of personal space. It was the closest thing to liberation she'd felt all afternoon.

"Yeah, I guess..." she shrugged, noncommittal. He stood, pulling her up with him, as if they needed one another for support. She grit her teeth to keep from scowling.

"Dad?"

"Yes sweetheart?"

"Do you think I could go into the station the next time the train stops? Get a magazine or a book or something?"

He screwed up his lips and brows in an expression of disapproving confusion that Sansa would have had to remind herself it was impolite to laugh at, if her situation had been any less dire.

"The next time it stops for a while, I mean? Like at the station we got on at?"

"Well...Since you've been so good..." he said with a small smile, before it fell and his eyes turned cold. "Since Kalispell, anyway," he said gravely, running his hand over her hip, rubbing it harder than was appropriate for a father to his daughter. _He's getting really fucking close to that phone. Oh shit—oh shit, what if he __**finds**__ it?!_

_I need to wipe the memory. If he finds it, he can't know who I've been talking to._

_If he finds it, we're fucked._

_**I'm**__ fucked._

"I have to go to the bathroom, too, actually—would you just get me a sandwich or something? With sour cream and onion chips?"

_If he finds my phone, I'll let him take it. I'll submit just the way he wants me to. I'll apologize. Then I'll pay people to let me text him from their phones. I've got cash on me. That's what I'll do._

_I need to learn his number._

"I'll just wait outside the bathroom for you, I think. Don't want to buy you a sandwich you don't like," he said, staring at her intently, like he meant something else.

If he did, she didn't get it.

_Shit, that means I can't call him,_ she thought, ducking into the little bathroom and leaning against the sink, pulling her phone out. She had a new message, freshly received.

"im here. be sitting the parking lot ready to go. you k lil bird?"

_A getaway car,_ she thought, faint whisper of a smile curling on her lips, _just like the movies._

'_Life isn't like the movies, girl,'_ he had said to her god-knows-how-many times.

"yeah, im ok. wish you were here," she typed.

_I will get out of this. Eventually. If it's the last thing I do._

_If you're not careful, it just might be..._

"petyrs getting touchier," she continued, both thumbs working the keypad. "worried hell find the phone. memorizing your number—if you get texts from random ppl, theyre all me. k?"

Once that one had sent, she cleared her inbox and sentbox, scrolled to her contacts and worked on committing his number to memory.

She almost felt comfortable with it when an insistent rap on the door of the cramped little bathroom threatened to stop her heart.

"Alayne? Are you alright in there?" His tone sounded concerned, but not for her well-being.

"Just fine, Dad, sorry. Give me a minute, okay?" She squeaked. Shutting her eyes, she whispered the number to herself, peeking to check it was right. The smallest feeling of triumph came over her. She watched his name and number disappear.

She tucked the phone into her bra where she hoped it would be safer and straightened her jacket, flushing the toilet and wetting her fingertips briefly, smoothing a flyway in the mirror, trying to compose an expression that didn't look so scared.

_You can do this Sansa. We can do this._

Friday, 8:58 PM

_No, no please, don't do this, please don't come with me,_ she screamed internally, Petyr's fingers curled around her elbow like a vice, like snakes, as he led her into the newsstand. _Sandor's right outside, watching those doors, waiting for you...wait until Petyr gets distracted, then make a run for it?_

Petyr didn't get distracted, though. He followed her step-for-step, leading her away from the magazines and towards the books. "It's a long ride, Alayne. One of these is bound to keep you entertained for longer than a..._Marie Claire_," he sneered, looking at the magazine she had clutched in her hand.

"I don't want to read any of those," she said plainly. "I want to read this."

"You're gonna be bored before long. You'll want to get off again."

_That's the fucking point,_ Alayne growled. _It's called a backup plan. Let me go._ Sansa only shrugged.

"Grab another magazine, at least."

"This is all I want to read, though."

His fingernails dug into her skin even through the leather jacket, he gripped her so hard, leaning in close and whispering with hot, minty breath into her ear, "for someone pretending to be so bored, you sure are resisting entertainment. It almost makes me suspect that you're..." he slid his hand down off her hip, around the back of her thigh...she barely contained a retch, her whole body going rigid with a sharp, shuddering intake of breath as his hand settled over the back pocket of her jeans. A small sob, like a shriek or a whimper, escaped her lips before she could bite down on them, so hard she nearly drew blood. "...up to something," he finished, kissing her temple languidly before letting his hand return to her hip.

It was a long moment before she trusted herself to move without bursting into tears, choking down the salty heat in her throat, the pooling behind her eyes, the weakness in all her muscles as a shudder wracked her.

_Let me,_ Alayne whispered, sliding into control as stillness overtook her body. She sighed, reaching out for a heavy, hardback book, some tome on conservative politics, turning it over in her hand as if to look at the back. "You're right," she said, as if conceding about the reading material.

_As if._

Alayne recoiled, raising the book over her head with her right hand and striking him hard in the face with a corner before dropping it to the ground, spinning on her heel and bolting, sprinting, making with all her strength for the doors.

_I did it,_ Sansa thought.

_We did it,_ Alayne added.

_Shit,_ she thought, skidding to a halt. _Where are the doors?_

_There. There, okay. We're okay. We've got this._

Elation swept over her as she heard only the soles of her shoes squeak over the hardwood floor, the glass doors before her toned in sienna, perfectly reflective against the black of the night without.

She caught a glimpse of herself smiling in them, right before she crashed through to the other side, the cold air enveloping her around her ribs and waist and chest like arms.

No, those were _real_ arms.

::

Friday, 8:55 PM

His heart seemed to re-start when he heard the train approaching from the east. Expectantly, he dove into the passenger's seat, throwing her door open for her, whenever she managed to arrive.

Belted behind the wheel, he waited.

Seconds dripped by slower than molasses as the train ground to a halt, hydraulics hissing, yellow lights casting an eerie pallor on the dead foliage before the train. He tried to listen for her voice on the platform, but the din drowned out any of her sweet singing. His whole body seemed to tingle from head to toe, adrenalin pumping into his arteries with a vengeance. Throwing the ignition, he put the truck in reverse, the ball of his foot edging on the gas, already poised to twist around, back out, get her _away._

_God__**damn**__it how long does it take to get off a fucking train and out into the fucking parking lot?!_

The clock on the dash read 8:56. 8:57. 8:58. _It's only been three minutes. Try to calm down. She isn't lost to you yet. _He checked his phone just in case. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing still.

Suddenly a shadow appeared in the glass doors out of the station and there she was, the little bird, flying her cage.

Until a couple of Amtrak police appeared behind her, looping their arms under hers, wrapping their arms around her waist.

_No._

_**Fuck.**_

_**SANSA.**_

He was out of the car and coming towards her in half a second, ready to rip those uniforms off her like band-aids and pummel them into the dirt. But her eyes found him, wide and frantic and _blue,_ yet retaining all their power to still him, even in such a dire moment as this.

"Go," she was shrieking, her little arms trying to fight them off with all her ferocity. "Don't—let—him _see_ you, _go!_"

Scooping his heart up off the ground where it had sunk to, he slid back into his car and backed away, cold rage simmering deep inside him, leaving a gritty taste in his mouth.

_So_ close.

So _close_.

Minutes later, braking jerkily with a lungful of curses Sandor pulled out his map and assessed his options. It was not such a straight shot as it had been, so far. The next two stops—Libby and Sandpoint—were well out of his way to Spokane, scalloping away from the main route west on a myriad of threadlike state highways that were bound to be windy, unkempt, and overrun with wildlife he'd have to brake for.

_She's a smart little bird and he's a conniving piece of shit. She's not going to try to escape in the next two stops and he's not going to let her._ And somehow, if she _did,_ he knew she would call for him and he'd come for her faster than she would believe.

_You should have been in that station. Waiting on that platform. Standing there with one arm open to hold her and the other drawn for the punch._

It was no use to guilt himself.

_Waiting at the door at least. Or the top of the fucking stairs._

_Stop it._

_She'll never forgive you. Not after this failure._

_I didn't fail her. I was there, I was so close..._

_So close, but not close enough. Never close enough._

"Shut up, shut up, _shut up!_" he growled, pounding his fist into the dashboard. This was juvenile, stupid, useless. There were a good several hours of driving between him and Spokane, and the train would arrive in four-and-a-half, set to leave at 2:15 for the final push to Seattle.

_I need a milkshake._

_Fuck off,_ he thought, wheeling Stranger back through the town and onto the highway. _There are other things you need worse, like a happy little bird all safe and sound, all tucked under your arm, and grateful. _He imagined what her gratitude would feel like, with her all cuddled up against him, soft skin and soft words. Indulgently, he imagined that she kissed him for rescuing her, pink little lips fluttering feather-light across his good cheek, or his scarred one, or his temples or forehead or nose.

Or maybe his mouth, close-lipped and careful, patient, unhurried. He'd catch her there with his paw, as lightly as he could, cupping her cheek or the back of her neck, begging her wordlessly to _stay, stay._ And she would, his little bird, as he started to kiss her back, gently for his strength but not so gently as she was capable of. She would gasp beneath him as he traced the tip of his tongue along her bottom lip, and though she would yield, parting her lips ever-so-slightly for him, he would wait another minute, until she seemed to relax under his touch, before he reached out and sought her tongue with his own.

It would be a high better than any pill or drink had ever brought him, and all from a simple kiss. Whether or not it was shameful, stupid for him to do so, he let himself hope for it. It made the hours shorter, his fatigue lighter, his determination stronger than ever before. She gave him strength, he thought, not physically but emotionally, spiritually—a sort of strength he never let himself believe he had before. He knew he was a broken man; it was plain, written on his face for all the world to recognize, and yet she had always seemed to treat him like he was whole. She reflected back at him no scarred dog, kicked and snarling, but a man, a human man...

Maybe she had the right of it, he let himself think. _Maybe I'm not as broken as the world believes I am._

_Not anymore, maybe._

_Not since her._

::

Saturday, 12:24 AM

_At least no one saw Sandor,_ she told herself, a mantra she'd been repeating for hours now. _He's still coming, _she thought, trying not to feel sullen, staring down at the zip-ties binding her wrists, linking her ankles together like weak plastic shackles._ I can still be saved._

The littlest part of her felt absurdly guilty about the whole thing; embarrassed, really—though that was mostly because of the scene she'd caused, not the angry pink gouges she'd made on his forehead and cheek.

It all seemed to have happened impossibly fast, but Petyr had told the rail police that she was his behaviourally-challenged charge, that she'd been in and out of psych wards for years, and that she tried to make escapes like this all the time. He'd twisted their sympathies, captured them like he'd once captured hers, manipulated them until she was back in his grasp. He patted her soundly, thanked the officers for bringing her back, outwardly expressed naught but gentle frustration, relief that she'd been returned to her rightful place at his side. He pulled her in for lingering embraces, the kind a parent and child might share.

But during these embraces, so innocuous as they seemed, he whispered to her the most horrible things, the sort of threats that mixed ice chips into her blood and left her frozen from the inside out.

"Aha, so _now_ we see your true colors, don't we? Well, I've got a few secrets of my own. You see, I don't care so much for keeping you _safe,_ just _keeping _you," he whispered, hissing against her ear as he drew her into another embrace on the platform, gripping her wrists too tightly. "Now we can do this the easy way or the hard way from here on out. It's up to you."

"Let me go," she insisted, quietly frantic. He only held her tighter.

"_Never,_" he whispered, arms sliding over her jacket and pressing her chest into his, "I'll never let you go. Not with your mother gone. I lost her once. I won't lose her twice."

"I'm _not_ my _mother_," she growled, thrashing in his arms now, trying to twist away to someplace she could breathe. She only seemed to twist herself deeper into him, like a rabbit in a snare.

"No, but you look just like her," he whispered. "Smell just like her," he said, pressing his face against her neck, and then kissed her, using his lips to cover the way his tongue dragged cross her skin. "Taste just like her..._God, _better, even, if that's even possible. And you, you won't leave me like she did, not for some rich Harvard prick with stone for a heart."

"That's my father you're talking about," she hissed, renewing her attempt at thrashing, "_stop_ it. Let me _go_."

"I made that mistake once, letting her go," he continued, crushing her harder against him, and in her struggles she felt something pressing against her leg, digging into her hip. She didn't want to name it, not even in her thoughts, it sickened her so. "But no other man will want you, once I'm done. Nor will you want any other man. You'll be all mine, Cat, like you always should have been..."

_Do not lose hope, _Alayne had whispered to her then, _you can't afford it. _She relaxed in his arms, looped her own around his shoulders and took a deep breath to steady herself. _You know Sandor won't rest until he's gotten you away from him. You __**know**__ that. You __**know.**_

"I'm sorry I hurt you," she said, stunted, but it didn't matter to him. Something went limp in his grip and for a moment he seemed honestly affectionate, holding her gently.

"I forgive you, sweetheart. Now come on. We've got a train to catch." The smile he gave her was almost genuine. _Is he that easy to fool?_

She'd spent her time since Whitefish trying to lull him into a sense of security with her good behaviour, ignoring the awful things he would whisper, the slimy feeling that trailed after his hands as they explored her, not quite obscenely, but well enough for her to wish him dead. She knew full well what he wanted from her, and she was just as determined not to give it as he seemed to get it from her. She was done with submission for now, though, tired of the charade. Standing, she excused herself to the bathroom for a reprieve—he followed after her, but she paid no mind. He would not keep her, try as he might, zip-ties and all.

Her phone opened to reveal a new message.

"hope he isnt being too hard on you. worried about you, pretty bird. ill fix this."

"im ok," she typed back, "just make sure youre at every stop, just in case i can get off."

Sansa yawned as the message sent, taking a minute to painstakingly splash the cold water from the tap on her face, her neck, rubbing it into her chest and around her bra. She felt dirty (probably because of Petyr) and it was an excuse to stall, in case Sandor wrote her back in the time she spent in the bathroom.

She was in luck. "way ahead of you, lil bird." She broke into a grin, at that.

::

Saturday, 5:57 AM

"Shit, no," he growled, Stranger's engine staring to sputter, to slow. "Fuck. No no no. Come on, boy, come on!" He looked down at his dash studying it in a panic, but the engine light was off, no indication of why the car would be stopping.

Except...

"_Shit,_" he swore, "not again! For fuck's _sake,_ dog, how stupid do you have to be to _run out _of fucking gas_ twice_ in _one night_?!" He pulled over and hurried out of the car, jogging up the road towards the little town, looking like something out of a Christmas story, old European-style buildings all blanketed in snow and lit up with Christmas lights even at this hour.

He'd been awake for more than 24 hours now, and driving for most of them—his legs were aching and his joints hurt from sitting so long, not to mention the fatigue that hung on him like a wet blanket that protested his every movement—but the little bird wasn't more than ten minutes away from here, and he promised he'd be at every stop when the train rolled through.

He hadn't broken his promise yet, despite the way it rubbed him raw every time to watch that train pull out, westbound again, without his little bird in his arms. Thankfully he'd kept his eyes dry, but he was starting to get worried now: with only three stops left until Seattle, he only had three more stops to save her himself. And with Stranger out of gas, he'd never make it to the next one on time, maybe not even the next two.

_Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck._

Upon seeing the station empty of the train on his arrival he could not help but worry he'd missed it—but according to his watch, which had been right so far, he still had a minute to spare. And sure enough, glancing right, the yellow light he'd come to love and hate came cutting through the blackness of the scene as hydraulics hissed and metal whined and the train lurched to a stop.

Picking up his feet again he hurried inside the station, looking around at the thin stream of people coming in and dispersing throughout the room. None of the people already inside were Sansa, and so he directed his attention back at the door. Not him, or him, or her, or him, or—_SANSA!_

The sight of her was almost enough to stop his heart, her eyes wide as they had been, her mouth parted, chest heaving. She was probably panicked, glancing left and right before he called out her name and she found him, screwing up her face in a crying smile as she ran at him, launching herself up into his arms.

He could hardly believe it. Here she was, flesh and warmth and tears and all, whimpering his name, holding on to him for dear life. He got kisses, not like the one he'd hoped for but some, on his shoulder and jaw and cheek and temple, wherever she could reach it seemed, in between thank-yous and I'm-so-glad-you-cames. It was better than he imagined. So much better.

"Are you okay, little bird?" He murmured into her hair, stroking her back, holding her easily off the floor.

"Yeah, I am now," she cried, burying her face into his neck. "Oh God, Sandor, _I was so scared._"

"It's okay, little bird, you're okay," he whispered, giving her hair a kiss of his own, hard and lingering, mean to reassure. "He'll never touch you again. I promise."

"Okay," she sniffed, pulling her head up to look at him. The irritation of her crying only made her eyes more blue, more beautiful. A crooked smile came over her lips as they stared at each other, drinking in the intimacy of it, the relief of having her here safe. He thought about kissing her but held himself back, nudging her little nose with his and leaning his forehead against hers, sighing heavily, happily.

"Okay," he rasped back.


	16. Chapter 14

A/N: I _am_ feeling rather wicked right now...Don't forget to leave me a review, lovelies!

Saturday, 5:07 AM

_What was that?!_

She swung her feet back again—in tandem, of course, zip-tied as they were—and again they caught, snagging on the plastic with a little _thunk._ Bringing her feet back to the floor, she bent over, as if to pick something up, feeling for and finding two little notches in the plastic where whatever she'd snagged on had left its marks.

_Maybe if I keep at this, I can cut through the ties._

It was worth a try. Anything was worth a try.

Wary, she watched Petyr out of the corner of her eyes as she tucked her feet back under her seat and leaned the weight of her legs down on them, waiting for the _thunk_ before tucking them back up again.

_Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. _He didn't notice a thing.

The minutes slipped by, dreadfully slow, as she resisted the urge to kick her feet back and lash at her bondage in earnest frustration. _Patience is a virtue,_ she remembered, and somehow that made it easier. Eventually she found a rhythm, meditative and slow, as she worked away at the plastic on the zip-ties.

_Thunk._ Five breaths. Kick back. _Thunk._

Half an hour later she was met with not a _thunk _but a _snap_ as her legs fell wildly forward and she scrambled to keep her ankles together, to keep Petyr from suspecting anything. Her heart thudding with panic, she nudged the fallen plastic under her seat, sitting up straight, glancing surreptitiously at him from the corner of her eyes.

Petyr had begun to doze, exactly like he promised that he wouldn't when he'd first herded her onto the train, and again after she'd hit him in Whitefish, but it seemed the excitement of the day had finally taken its toll on him. Sansa was tired too, but not in a way that made her want to sleep. It was an emotional fatigue she felt, worn down and bruised and tender. She shuffled, tucking her zip-tied hands up under her face against the window as a pillow, bringing the plastic cord that chafed at her wrists to her mouth, beginning to work it between her canines, biting and gnawing.

She'd be doing this to her own leg right now, if she thought she had to.

Sansa had them chewed through soon enough, but it was just as the plastic dropped to her shoulder that she realized she had no way of hiding the fact that she'd gotten out of it. Petyr wouldn't think to look at her feet, she figured, but her hands?

She'd have to keep perfectly still until the next stop, then, where she would invariably make another escape attempt. _Like you mean it, this time, _Alayne sneered. As if there was any other way to attempt escape.

Her arteries felt like they were swollen, so quick her blood rushed through them all as the train started to slow and the conductor made a hushed announcement about some place called Leavenworth. Petyr stirred beside her, and she tucked her legs back instinctively under the seat to hide them, otherwise trying to appear motionless, asleep.

_The train will stop for about twenty seconds. Don't give him time to follow you, but make sure you get off the train._

_Immobilize him somehow. Punch him in the face again or something._

_Because that worked so well last time._

_Shut up._

Eyes wide and body flooding with adrenaline, her palms slickened with sweat against her cheeks as she watched the foliage slowly lurch to a stop out her window.

The train seemed to _thunk_ as it stopped. She took five breaths, wheeled around and brought her fist down in Petyr's groin _hard_ as she stood, leaping over his legs, and ran for the nearest door. He might have shouted after her—knowing him, he probably did.

She did not stop to relish the feeling of the cold night air as it caressed her skin, nor did she give pause for others in her way as she danced and shoved for the door to the station, whether she was running _from_ something or _to_ something lacking both relevance and distinction. There was a devil at her back, true, but there was more than just relief awaiting her in seeing Sandor. "Sorry...sorry...'scuse me, sorry..." she mumbled, launching herself through the doors. There were people everywhere. _It's six am in the middle of fucking nowhere...why are there so many goddamn—_

Her focus jerked at the sound of her name.

Sandor looked like hell. A thin sheen of sweat plastered flyaway hairs to his brow and disappeared into a trail of darkness down his shirt. His eyes were wide, bloodshot, wild, ringed in soft purple bruises from his lack of sleeping and his five o' clock shadow cast the good side of his jaw in near-black darkness. He was leaning forward vigilantly, and as he caught her eye his face relaxed, a smile extending across his good cheek and twisting in his bad, his eyes welling up with light and relief.

She choked on a cry—what she'd been running _from_ lost its significance in light of what she'd been running _to—_and her stride faltered only a moment as she propelled herself forward, jumping for him. His arms came around her, feeling so like a promise of safety. There was nothing to worry about anymore.

"Sandor," she murmured, cheeks wet and warm, drinking in his unwashed scent, the smell of his sweat on his neck as she pressed her lips against any part of him that she could, relief carrying her out like a riptide. "Thank you for being here," she whined stupidly, "I'm so glad to see you. You have no idea. Oh my God. Thank you."

"Are you okay, little bird?" he said softly, his face turned into her hair, the low rumble of his voice sending shivers down her spine. She nodded, nuzzling into his shoulder.

"Yeah, I am now," she sighed, buckling under a sob of relief. "Oh God, Sandor, _I was so scared..._" she pressed herself into his shoulders desperately, and his arms tightened around her, drawing her closer in response.

"It's okay, little bird, you're okay," he whispered, pressing his lips onto her cheek through the curtain of her hair resolutely, long and lingering. She had half a mind to twist her face—it would only take a little twist—but even with her emotions running high, she could see clearly enough to know that now was not the time for anything like that. "He'll never touch you again. I promise."

"Okay," she sob-laughed, smiling at him, trying to prove with her look that she believed him. He must have understood, as he gave her a little Eskimo kiss before leaning his forehead on hers.

"Okay," he agreed.

After another long moment, he lowered her to the ground and began to lead her out of the station, though she gripped his hand tightly in both of hers, unwilling to relinquish contact with him completely.

"It kills me to admit that your getaway car isn't exactly...primed for the getaway. I was an idiot and let it run out of gas on the state highway back there, we need to walk over to that Shell station and get a can of gas, okay?" His fingers cupped her hands back, unresisting as she laced her fingers in between his. "It shouldn't be too long of a walk. I know you're tired. I'd offer to leave you here to wait if you want, but right now I kind of never want to leave you alone again...so I'm afraid we've got a bit of a walk ahead of us, little bird."

"A walk sounds really nice right now, actually," she said, pulling his hand closer to hers and leaning her head on his arm as he led her out of the parking lot towards a stretch of sparse wood, on the other side of which the lights of civilization glowed. "It'll be nice to stretch my legs."

"I know what you mean," he chuckled, "the little jog I took to get from my useless car to the station to meet you would've felt really good, I think, if I hadn't been panicking."

"You had to run? Oh God, I'm sorry!" she laughed, rubbing her forehead against his arm.

"It's fine little bird," he mumbled, reaching across his body to ruffle her hair. She flashed him a bright smile in return.

Sansa didn't want to walk, she realized: she wanted to be held, back in the pool and gathered in his arms, pressed against his warm chest, skin on skin, all the time in the world before them...

'_**Shit**__ it feels good to hold you...'_

Had that been only yesterday? So many things seemed different between now and then; those feelings that had been unidentifiable before, either for want of courage or clarity, did not daunt her anymore: she wanted to be with him, in as many senses of the word as there were. She knew that now, plain as day.

But it wasn't daytime yet. The sky was blacker than she'd yet seen it that night. It was only thanks to the blue-gray snow on the ground that she had any idea of where she was putting her feet. Her breath fogged before her, obscuring much of her view, but it didn't matter. She followed Sandor's lead as he picked his way through the forest. He wouldn't let her trip.

"I'm sorry it took me so long to get to you, Sansa," Sandor rasped suddenly, gravely, his voice breaking into a whisper. She furrowed her brow.

"It took you to..._what?_"

"I should have gotten you off that train sooner, I—"

"Sandor. Shut _up_," she sputtered almost playfully, giving him a little shove in the chest.

"I was just...I mean, I wanted to get on, I almost bought myself a ticket a couple of times, but—"

"Stop it. I mean it."

"—but then I wouldn't have had a car to put you into after I managed to get you off, and I would have basically had to beat that little fucker into a bloody pulp just to wrestle you from his grasp—"

"Seriously Sandor. You did exactly what you needed to do! It was okay! I'm okay, see?!"

"—and then there would have been assault charges, and I really just didn't want to put you through that, and I thought this would be better, and I just—"

She stopped dead, tugging his arm so he would turn to face her, though he cast his eyes down at her feet with a sheepish frown and a sigh.

"I'm sorry," he said before she could admonish him further.

"Stop that. You're sounding like me."

He chuckled at that, still looking at her feet. "It's the lack of sleep, I guess."

"Are you saying that when you're tired, the big scary Hound turns into a polite little chirping bird?" she teased, watching him try and fail to suppress a smile as he rolled his eyes at her. She giggled a while before sighing. "I think we're both feeling sleep-deprived. How about you just accept my thanks, admit you did great, and go get some gas so we can get to a frickin' hotel? Or at least a cup of coffee?"

He laughed. "Alright, little bird, you've got it." But instead of carrying on into the forest he pulled her into his chest, her arms finding their way under his jacket and around the hard muscle of his waist, her fingers splayed against the warmth of his back, tucking her cheek against the thudding of his heart. He rested his jaw on the top of her head, sighing as they stilled in each other's arms, drinking in the embrace as it stretched on, taking over their senses as they revelled in one another.

That is, until Sandor jerked back, throwing her into a pile of firewood stacked between two saplings and stepping around her, growling incoherently at something to her back.

"So we meet again, Hound," a cloying voice responded. _Oh God_, she thought, nauseated, able to smell the mint just in the sound of it. "In other circumstances I'd say it was nice to see you, but considering...well, I think we're past the point of courtesy, are we not?"

Sandor didn't respond, not verbally; took Petyr around the throat with one hand and drew the other back for a punch, strong and true, just like the sort he traded with his brother in the boxing ring in another lifetime. Time lurched to a stop then, her Sandor poised for aggression.

Except time hadn't stopped, not really. And what was that buzzing sound? Petyr was making soft grunting noises, and Sandor was..._gurgling._

_What the..._a cold flood of dread rose in her from toes to teeth. And then Sandor crumpled to the ground.

_Oh no. No no no._

Petyr took a sharp gasp of breath and brushed the bigger man, now writhing in the snow, off his feet. "Sansa. _Sweetheart._"

"Get away from me," she shrieked, scrambling back into the tumble of firewood behind her, little splinters pushing into the flesh of her hands. "Sandor. Get up, _please_!"

Her kidnapper chuckled, stepping over him with careful showmanship, crouching down before her. "Did you really think you could get away from me so easily, Sansa?" She spat in his face, trying to think of something venomous to say back, but he tutted her softly, taking her chin in his thumb and forefinger in a mockery of Sandor's affectionate gesture and leaned over her, pushing something plastic and cold into her hip.

A white-hot stab of electricity overtook her body then, only for a fraction of a second, leaving her muscles like overcooked pasta draped over her bones. The fight in her bled out into the snow. "Won't you cooperate with me, darling?" He whispered, "like the good girl your mother raised you to be?"

She could only manage a whimper.

"That's a girl. Now. We've missed our train since you've been so naughty, but we'll find our way out of here soon enough. There's an island outside of Seattle I want to show you. I've bought the whole thing, we'll have it all to ourselves."

"Sss...Saand-d-doooh..." She whimpered, calling out to where he groaned on the forest floor behind them. Her tongue felt swollen, her whole body tingled. _Is this what he felt after I shocked him? Shit...I need to apologize for that again..._

"He's staying here," Petyr explained, petting her face, leaning in close so that their noses brushed. "I'll get you another dog if you promise to be good," he whispered and leaned in to kiss her, tongue reaching out, seeking her before he even came close.

And then he was gone. Thrown back. Pulled by a huge arm, wrestled under a huge body.

_Sandor._

"I'll gut you, I swear to God," he rasped, growling, holding Petyr's right arm over his head, pinning the smaller man to the ground by his neck.

But then Sandor buckled, grunting, as Petyr's knee flashed up between his legs, and went rigid as his right arm came down and connected with Sandor's shoulder.

She was scrambling upright, pushing herself up off the fallen firewood with the shaky limbs of a newborn doe. Her fingertips brushed something cold, metallic, that clung to her skin. A weapon, maybe. She groped in the snow for it.

"Call off your dog if you want to see him live, Sansa," Petyr called, pulling the taser away from his shoulder and rolling out from beneath Sandor as he groaned anew, sounding more like a dying animal than a man. Her fingers closed around the metal and she hauled it up into her hand. A hatchet, it was. Bigger than a hatchet. An axe. She turned it over, heavy in her hands, weak fingers winding their way around the handle, her grip too soft, but there.

"One more shock should do it. I'll stop his heart," he threatened, kneeling over Sandor with the taser closed in his fist like a knife. If she wanted to save him, if she wanted to save _herself_, she had to act now. She took a shaky step forward that turned into a leap, a bound.

If she had stopped to think, the bite of the woodgrain in her hand might have felt like power, seeming some sort of symbol for how far she'd come. If she had stopped to think, she would have noticed that Sansa and Alayne were working in perfect tandem, curling their fingers around the same axe, taking the same shaking steps, thinking the same frantic thoughts. If she had stopped to think, she would have felt the synthesis within her, reconciling her separate personalities, the hard lessons she'd learned, bringing her safely to the horizon she'd sought for so, so long.

She didn't stop to think, though. She just swung.

A strength surged in her from some unknown abyss behind her core, filling her arms and shoulders as she grit her teeth and put her back into the swing, brows furrowed, blue eyes focused on destruction. The blade of the axe clipped skin and spine and bone. Petyr might have cried out, he might not have. She wasn't listening for him. She dropped the axe as he dropped to the ground. A snowflake landed on her cheek, shaken from a tree at the disturbance.

Shoving Petyr's bleeding form away from him, she fell to her knees at Sandor's side. His eyes were open and unfocused as he laid there, splayed on his back with a spray of blood across his face and jacket and shirt, his chest heaving, jaw muscles playing under his scar and stubble as he clenched and unclenched them, breathing ragged and white in the air.

"Sandor," she gasped raggedly, her hands coming up under his jaw, feeling for a pulse. It was there, and regular. "Sandor, talk to me."

"I...all...right, lil bird..." he groaned. "I...just..._fuck._"

"It's okay. You're okay, you're okay," she whimpered, leaning down and snaking her arms around his neck. "You're okay, you're okay, you're okay."

"Fucking _hell,_ little bird."

"You're okay. You're okay, you're okay."

"What'd you hit him with?" he asked through grit teeth.

"Uh," she said, leaning back on her knees to look at him, curling her hair behind her ears. "I found an axe."

He raised his eyebrows and tried to sit up, only to grit his teeth and sink back to the snow with a strained huff. "An _axe_?!"

"Yeah."

"Is he alright?!"

"I don't know!"

"Sansa, if he's _dead_ we've got some serious trouble here," he whispered urgently. She glanced over at Petyr, staining the ground steaming black around him. He didn't appear to be moving.

"We might have some serious trouble, then," she said, turning back to him. "But I'm okay. You're okay. You're _okay._"

"Don't worry about me, little bird. It takes more than a little electricity to kill—"

"Please don't dismiss how worried I was right now, alright?"

He met her eyes almost confrontationally for a moment, leaning his head up off the ground before capitulating and dropping it back into the snow. "Alright, little bird. But we've got to take care of this the right way, now. Help me sit up. I feel like an invalid."

Somehow between the two of them they managed to pull Sandor up to lean against a tree, breathing heavily, obscuring them in white.

"Shit it's cold."

"Yeah, I know," she answered.

"Give me your phone," he grunted, adjusting his back against the tree for comfort. "I don't think I can get to mine."

She fished it out of her bra and handed it over to him, catching his eyes as they flicked back to her face from her chest as he took it from her fingers, burned side of his mouth twitching wildly. "Nice n' warm," he murmured, opening it and dialling three numbers slowly before pulling it to his ear, opening his other arm and beckoning her to sit beneath it with a jerk of his chin. Sansa crawled around him, ducking against his chest, feeling the heaving of his breath and the rumble of his voice in his chest as his arm settled on her shoulders.

"Hey brother...Yeah, no, this is her phone, I got her...Yeah," he was smiling a little, giving her a quick glance before pulling her tighter against his chest. "Yeah I know. But hey, uhh, so something happened, though, uh, Baelish followed us, and now he's kind of dead...Yeah, he did...No, okay, not kind of dead. All the way dead. Or at least we think so. I don't really want to go poking around, if you get what I mean...No, it was her, actually...I...Well, can I tell you when you get here?...Okay...Okay, yeah, I guess that would make sense...Okay...Yeah, will do...I'll see you. Thanks man. Bye." He sighed, handing her phone back and reaching up to pet her hair. "The police will be coming to get an official interview with us, but it's part of the FBI's case, so we should be free to go somewhere and get some fucking sleep soon enough..." he said, as if she knew what he was talking about, staring off into the woods.

"Uh...What?!" She said. "The FBI? Sandor, what are you..."

"Oh," he laughed darkly, shaking his head, "right. I haven't told you yet. The FBI's been watching us for a couple of months now. Turns out there's a big investigation into Baratheon Power and the Ironthrone Conglomerate as a whole, fraud and bankruptcy and corruption and all that shit. They want us to testify against them. Naturally, I said I couldn't speak for you, but..."

"I'll do it," she chirped resolutely, "I'd be happy to testify."

"I figured you would. So did they. They didn't know about Baelish, though, don't know how the little fucker slipped through their fingers, but they thought you were all alone, and basically manipulated me to come up here and look after you until they got closer to the trial and everything. Because—I don't know—safe houses are expensive and shit. I don't really get it."

She blinked, trying to take in what she was hearing.

"Not that it took much twisting to get me up here, mind you. I'd..." he swallowed, rasping. "I'd been kind of obsessing over leaving you for a while. The whole time I was in rehab, really..." he trailed off, his voice grown quiet, his tone unsure. He'd stopped moving his hand across her arm, petting her hair, holding her in a loose embrace, all semblance of confidence suddenly fled from him. She looked at him, absorbed in his own thoughts, and tried to imagine what he was thinking. He continued. "I just...I'm such a shitty guy, Sansa. I'm nasty and I'm a coward and I'm a shitty guy."

"You're not any of those things," she insisted, drawing a sigh from him. "You're _not_,"

"Well I was. All of those things. And especially to you, back in L.A., and I figured out while I was in rehab that it was my biggest regret, you know? Like, nothing else I'd ever done felt like it mattered in comparison to how royally I'd fucked everything up with you."

"Sandor, you didn't—"

"I _did,_ Sansa," he insisted through gritted teeth, turning to look at her properly, his free hand coming around to cup her cheek. "I could have saved you. I know that. But you've been gracious enough to give me a second chance, to let me make it up to you, and I can't tell you how grateful I am for that. And swimming with you, as _fuckin'_ great as it was, wasn't really a second chance to prove myself, exactly, to prove that I can...that I'll keep you safe."

"Sandor," she gushed, her chest turning to liquid, trying to hold him tighter, to tell her that he didn't need to prove anything to her, that she trusted him, cared for him, valued him regardless. He was still talking, though, and it was rude to interrupt.

"But, it's like...this case, this FBI case, this was my chance, you know? Take you away from Baelish, get you safe, and help you make the problems that forced you into hiding go away. That's what I can do. And I guess...well, you'll probably disagree with me, because you're so fuckin' sweet and forgiving and wonderful and I don't deserve to be let off so easy, but...I guess I just feel like I've let you down? Already? With taking so long to get you off that train—"

"Sandor, stop."

"And, I mean, being so _useless _in putting Baelish down. I mean _fuck_, I used to be a bodyguard. That was how I made my living—"

"Hey, _look at me,_" she said, taking his face in both of her hands and pulling it close to hers, meeting his wide eyes with her own. "We've got bigger problems to deal with right now than your unfounded sense of failure, okay? You did great. I'm fine. You're fine. Petyr's dead..." she snagged on that for that on a moment, but kept going. "That's what matters. Whatever the FBI want from us, that's not going to be easy. Getting out of here after what happened, that's not going to be easy either," she reached for his hand then, dropping her hand from his good cheek to lace her fingers in his. "We can't be breaking ourselves from the inside out with stuff like this right now, okay? We can't afford it," she stroked her fingers along his burned cheek, feeling the hard, smooth ripples in it beneath her fingertips. "You've done so well. You've been my hero this whole time, you know. I wouldn't have found the strength in myself if I hadn't had you here to show it to me."

He looked at her for a long, unblinking moment, before abruptly gathering her up in his arms and crushing her into his chest. "Goddamn it, Sansa," he choked, curling himself around her, burying his face in her hair. His chest was shaking, taking little, shuddering breaths as he gripped her tighter and tighter. She clung to him back, winding her arms around him, pressing her face into his neck. All words were lost to them then; only their embrace seemed to have meaning.

There was a quiet emptiness in her that the warmth of relief left behind, once the crushing, desperate force of their clinging to one another had subsided and they sat settled in each other's arms, and in that quiet, an unease began to creep into her bones, slouching like guilt, sharp like terror. She was acutely aware of the body sprawled behind her now, the body she'd made out of a man she'd known with an impulsive swing of an axe...

_Dear God,_ she thought, swallowing hard, _what have I done?_


	17. Meanwhile II

A/N: Trying to write a SanSan chapter that is not narrated by SanSan is more difficult than I imagined it would be. I hope the fluff doesn't seem too out of place or character. Also! I had to skimp on my editing time in order to get it out to you guys tonight, so I'm sorry if there are any stupid errors. Enjoy!

**MEANWHILE...**

**Saturday, November 24****th****, 2012, 8:14 AM**

"Dave?" Stan called from the back seat, tentative and pleading, as if making himself sound small would change the answer to the question Dave and Melissa knew he was about to ask.

"_No,_" they barked in unison. Dave had come to suspect that Stan's constant issue with the temperature of his surroundings was his way of dealing with relinquishing control of the taskforce to himself and Melissa. And that was fine and everything, but Dave was fast approaching the limits of his humour, what with the Red stripped down to her crimson camisole in the seat beside him, and his sleeves rolled up as far as his dress-shirt would allow.

"But I'm _cold,_" he spat, somehow managing to make his childish whining sound indignant and furious.

"Just think about the case," Dave suggested, "that should get your blood moving."

"I want to warm up, not give myself an aneurism," he huffed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Petyr Baelish...Do you think that comm—that Varys character knew about Baelish and didn't tell us?"

"That's ridiculous," Melissa huffed, incensed, tilting her head towards the back seat and crossing her bare arms across her chest. "More likely is the case that Baelish was just better at evading whatever mechanism Varys used to find Sansa and kept himself better hidden."

"But he was the one hiding _her,_" Stan countered. "If he'd managed to be so careful about himself, how did that not extend to the girl?"

"Maybe he wasn't so concerned with her safety after all," Dave offered, scowling. "Pretty little thing like her, and a fraudulent, embezzling piece of shit like him...you never know what he might have had up his sleeve."

"Still. It doesn't line up for me."

"Well then, you can ask him to his face, can't you?" Melissa spat, leaving a silence to swell after her in the cabin of the car.

"I realize we've forgotten to tell the attorneys about the recent developments with Miss Stark," he harrumphed from the back seat, as close to a concession or an apology as Stan Baratheon had ever managed to come. "It shouldn't change anything, but I think they'll want to know..." Dave shot Melissa a half smile.

"It's the best I'm going to get," Melissa acknowledged in a whisper, shrugging at Dave.

"He means well."

"I know," she said, smiling.

"Yeah, hi, I'm calling for Bill Manderly's office, please..."

"I hope this doesn't hit the papers," the Red started, changing the subject. "Can you imagine what Cersei would do if she figured out that Sansa Stark was alive?"

"And grew some balls while she was at it?" Dave snickered, though it was a dark thought, really. "Like she needs any of those theories of hers bolstered by Stark _actually killing_ somebody."

Every time Cersei Lannister-Baratheon had been interviewed by the authorities about the suspicious nature of her son's death, she had vehemently accused her brother Tyrion and his wife Sansa of murder most foul. Anyone who had been close with either of them, though—particularly the young ladies who kept Sansa's company—couldn't seem to imagine that either one of them could have been involved, but money, especially in the sort of excessive amount like Cersei Lannister-Baratheon had it, does strange things to people's voices, makes them louder, more credible, even when the words coming out of their mouths mean less than wind.

And the wind coming from the mouth of the heiress to the Ironthrone conglomerate was like to take Dorothy out of Kansas one of these days, the tall tales she was telling. Cersei had recently invented justification to fire the administrators at all of the contingent companies of the conglomerate and replace them with friends loyal to her in an effort to keep her hold on the conglomerate strong in the face of her ongoing battle with her son's young widow over his shares of the Ironthrone group. Margaery Tyrell argued that, since they'd been legally married at the time of her husband's death, she was entitled to his majority shareholding, which would endow the girl with power over the companies that Cersei, with her second-largest holding of shares, didn't want her to have. Dave thought it was sad, really—these people were more concerned with securing the power vacuum that opened in the wake of Joff Baratheon's death than actually mourning him. He must not have been a very nice guy.

It had been Cersei's particular obsession with Sansa Stark that had first piqued Stan's interests in her as a witness. When he'd met the girl briefly on the night of the boxing tournament Stan's brother Robert had hosted in honour of the anticipated merging of the Stark's company into the Ironthrone conglomerate, she'd seemed as doe-eyed and innocent as any Disney princess, but she had been engaged to Stan's oldest nephew for over a year, and if his own mother and widow's reactions in the wake of his death told him anything about the guy, the Stark girl likely hadn't held onto that innocence for long.

But did she know anything? Stan seemed to think so.

"Cersei would have been priming her to be a good business-wife, just like she imagines herself to be," he'd thought aloud, rubbing a knuckle over the bridge of his nose. "And my nephew might have made her sit through board meetings on occasion. That girl would have been a slave to his whims," he muttered darkly, reaching out for the glass of water on the table before him. "She would remember things, even if she is as stupid as Cersei thinks her to be."

"She's one of the best options we've got," Melissa had said, settling into one of the leather chairs beside the fire with her glass of scotch, "anyone else who might know anything useful is already balls-deep in that clusterfuck of a company, none of them will want to be talking to us."

"Tyrion might," Stan had added, almost hopefully. "It's his brother he loves, not his sister. If we give him a heads-up about busting his family company open wide, he might like the sound of immunity if he agrees to testify against her actions."

"But he's missing too," Melissa countered absently, eyes glazed over as she stared into the flames. "Probably followed his wife into hiding, wherever she ended up."

"Now if only we could find her," Dave had droned, tipping his drink back, only to find it empty.

Stan's office was in a hush, after that. They were back to square one.

But that had been back in September, before their brief trip to Louisiana to meet with Varys and the Elder Brother of that parish that had changed everything for them. Since then, Tyrion had turned up in a circus in Afghanistan, of all places, ready and willing to testify against his sister in exchange for immunity, and certain forensic evidence from a number of other "incidents" was beginning to catch up to the Tyrell and Redwyne families, and though they were sure to have the finest legal council money could buy; their portion of the conglomerate, the Reach Agricultural Biotechnology Laboratories, was the highest-grossing, second only to the Lannister's Casterly Mining, and not by much. Dave shook his head to himself—he'd been working this case too long.

"Well, is Glover in this morning?...Uh-huh...And Umber too?" Stan interrogated the phone at his ear, sounding about as concerned as Dave had ever heard him. "Alright, well I'll try their cell phones. Anyway. Thank you Jeyne...yep, you too. Thanks." He hung up the phone with a sigh. "Lazy bastards, taking a Saturday off. So what if their star witness murders somebody in the middle of the night? Oh, let the investigators deal with that, _we've taken Saturday off._"

"You know, it should probably be one of us making those calls," Melissa offered. "With you not officially being on the case or anything."

"No," he scoffed, "you're driving."

"_Dave_ is driving. I'm sitting here looking pretty, which, to be fair, I'm pretty good at. But I've got a career to build," and she held open her hand expectantly.

Stan grumbled ill-temperedly but relinquished his phone to the Red, his Russian pet. She passed along the lawyers' council, their hopes that there would be a self-defence plea in the details of the 'incident' (Dave found it hard to imagine that the Stark girl could commit murder out of any other motive) and before long they were rolling up to the Chelan County Sherriff's Department, Melissa's Russian friend and the Elder Brother of the Louisiana parish waiting within, steaming styrofoam cups of coffee in their hands.

"Are you folks them federal agents I'as talkin' to on the phone this mornin'?" A heavy officer with short-cropped gray hair and a matching thick moustache asked them.

"We are," Dave confirmed, and the officer gave them all a warm smile and a firm handshake, asking them to help themselves to the coffee and donuts on the counter behind them. The pastries looked mediocre at best, but the coffee was bold, smooth, much finer than Dave had expected to find in a little police station like this one.

"So what were your conclusions on seeing the crime scene," Melissa asked, once all the courtesies had been observed.

"Well, when we got there, the older man was lyin' face-down with a pool o' blood around 'im, with the kids sittin' about five yards away with their backs to him, lookin' out for us. The wound in 'is neck lines up with the story the girl told us about where she was standing and how hard she hit him. We've got the murder weapon, bloodied up as you'd 'xpect it to be. We're dusting it for prints for the sake of procedure, the girl's already confirmed it as the murder weapon."

"How were they in their interrogations?" Dave asked, "it sounds like you've got a confession, but have you got a motive?"

"Oh, self-defence for sure," the officer said, shaking his head soundly. "I mean..." he sighed, "the girl said that the man had been groping her for some time now, and had recently kidnapped her and was threatening to rape her while trying to convince her that he was protecting her from some other people who apparently want her dead...not quite sure what she was talkin' about, but that was what it sounded like.

"He was also threatening her friend, so she told us. We found a taser next to the body at the scene, and she claimed he'd been shocking them both, herself but mostly her friend, and that he'd been saying he was gonna shock the guy so hard he'd stop his heart. Now, upon seeing the taser and the size of the guy he was apparently trying to shock to death..." the officer shrugged, "I'm not so sure the danger was real. But the girl was rightly feeling severely threatened. I think she sees her friend in there as the only thing that stands between her and whatever she thinks the big bad world has out for her."

_That's been true for quite a while,_ Dave thought, _poor girl. _It was cases like hers that had made him want to go into law enforcement in the first place, wanting to protect the innocent from exploitation by people like Cersei Lannister-Baratheon and Petyr Baelish.

"But anyway," the officer continued, "they were very co-operative, though the little lady was a deal more polite than her friend in there," he said with a touch of disdain.

"Sounds like him," the Elder Brother muttered with a smile into his coffee. Stan gave a snort of laughter.

"They didn't seem to understand much about why they were so important to a bunch of federal agents, though...that is, if you don't mind me askin'?"

All looked to Stan for direction. The unofficial leader inclined his head, pursing his lips thoughtfully before answering righteously, "they're very important witnesses in a case that could save the American economy."

"Well then, I'm sorry we couldn't do more for 'em. We tried to give 'em some donuts and coffee—the girl wouldn't touch either, and that seemed upset that friend of hers some. He ate for both of 'em, though, as y' might expect, with his size and everything."

"Poor Sansa," Melissa's Russian friend cooed, "it has been an exceptionally turbulent morning for her, I imagine."

"Is it alright if we bring them with us, now, or is there any other procedures we need to observe first?"

"Nope. They're all yours. Not a talkative bunch, them kids. They've just been holding hands and looking stupid at each other any time we haven't been questioning 'em. I'll take y'all back."

"Let's some of us stay behind," Melissa offered, "don't want to overwhelm them with our numbers."

"What a compassionate idea," her friend agreed. "I think I'll wait out here," he said, reaching for another donut.

"Shall we, mista' Seawort'?" the Elder Brother offered, standing from his chair.

"After you, brother," Dave gestured, following the preacher and the policeman back into the hallways of the Sherriff's office.

Sure enough, as they drew up to the Spartan white holding room their charges had been kept in, the two had pushed their chairs flush together, the girl tucked under her guardian's arm, her legs flung across his knees. He held both of her hands in one of his, and was absently petting her hair with the other. Both looked like they hadn't slept for days; two empty Styrofoam cups, presumably once holding coffee, were stacked on Clegane's side of the table, a crumby napkin tucked inside. Just before they entered, he turned to press a kiss to the top of her head. She turned her face to give him a wan but earnest smile, which he returned, before tucking her head back into his chest and sighing. _She looks like she feels supported, _Dave observed. Watching them together, he was suddenly glad they'd sent him after her. _For her sake,_ he thought.

Clegane stood when they entered, pulling the girl up with him as he went to hug the Elder Brother and shake Dave's hand. His burns were among the worst scarring he'd seen, but he tried to remember his manners and keep the man's eye.

"This is Mista' Seawort'. He headin' the FBI task-force that gon' bring the charges 'gainst the Ironthrone group."

"It's a pleasure to finally meet you both," Dave said. He fell in beside the Stark girl as they left the room, her guardian's attention claimed by his friend and mentor. "I can't imagine the day you've had, Miss Stark. Is there anything we can do?"

"I just need to get somewhere I can sleep, I think," she said sweetly, smiling at him through her tired eyes. _Pretty eyes,_ he noticed,_ deep-ocean blue. Like on the crabbing boats..._

"A real breakfast would also be nice," Clegane added, suddenly appearing the two of them, resting one of his large hands on the middle of her back, "and a better explanation of what's going on in LA."

They ended up all crammed in a booth at Denny's, the Elder Brother, Clegane and Sansa all sitting opposite the taskforce and Melissa's friend. It made a comic spectacle, Clegane in all his bulk flanked by the slight preacher and the slighter girl.

"I'm getting a milkshake," he overheard Clegane declare to Sansa. "You want one, little bird?"

"I think I'll just have a hot chocolate," she peeped up at him, turning her face to look in his eyes.

"I mean, it's up to you," he'd responded, shaking his head, "but if you think you can sneak sips off of mine, you've got another thing coming." He offered her a sip almost as soon as his shake came, though, and let her have as many sips as she seemed to want throughout the meal.

"So, I guess I'm kind of unclear," she began at one point, after taking a dainty little sip off Clegane's milkshake, "but what exactly is this case against? Why do you need us to testify?"

Melissa answered the girl, leaning across the table to look her in the eye. "We're aware of a number of things that have gone awry in the running of the Ironthrone Conglomerate of companies lately, particularly since Robert Baratheon's death a couple of years ago, though certain problems with the companies began a lot earlier than that."

"It's mostly to do with tax loopholes, though the whole thing reeks of foul-play," Dave added, "and we were hoping you guys could remember some incriminating details about certain instances of corruption—don't worry, we'll help you know what's important and what isn't."

"That company is a snakepit," Stan snarled, crossing his arms. "My brother was an idiot for marrying that Lannister bitch or ever listening to her business council..."

"That's why he isn't technically on the team," Melissa said, jerking her head towards Stan with a little smile.

That made the Stark girl laugh, a refreshing sight after watching her look so morose all morning. Clegane seemed to agree, giving her a little squeeze around the waist like a lazy hug before she turned her smiling on him, meeting his eyes and blatantly stealing another sip from his milkshake. Pointedly, without breaking their eye contact, he reached around to grab her hot chocolate, quirked his eyebrow at her, and drained it, ending up with a little whipped cream moustache. She rolled her eyes and grabbed the napkin out of his lap, swatting it at his face.

"You're a mess," she might have muttered; he couldn't quite hear, and felt as though he was intruding on something by watching them at their play. They were completely in their own world, those two.

"Forgive me, I don't mean to pry," Stan began, turning to Melissa's friend with a manner that brooked no argument, "but how exactly do you two know each other?" he asked, looking between the bald, perfumed Russian and the humble preacher across from him.

"Well," the Elder Brother began, leaning back, "I weren't always a preacher, y'know."

"Once upon a time, our friend here was an American spy of the highest calibre," Varys said with a smile.

"I weren't no _spy,_" the Elder Brother countered, "I's a Navy Seal, way back 'n th' eighties. I's sent on a mission t' rescue a p'ticular Russian informant who'd disappeared int' a Siberian gulag thanks t' the KGB. Th' rescue...it di'n go quite as planned, did it Varys?" He laughed.

"Well if you ask me, anything was better than that godforsaken labour camp, even hiding out in the Siberian wilderness with winter closing in fast on our heels," the Russian said with a smile and a soft chuckle. "Oh goodness. You should have seen him, trying to measure the angles of the shadows on the ground and figure out how far south we'd gone, since the nights were often too cloudy to figure our coordinates by the stars..."

"Found God on them plains," the preacher reminisced, "an' made a good frien' while I's at it."

"We both settled in the States after that," Varys continued. "Both of us coming to the conclusion, after doing what we had to in order to survive on the steppes, that what we'd been previously doing with our lives simply wasn't worth it. So we built new ones, here in the land of opportunity," he said with a grin, gesturing at the chrome-and-pleather restaurant around them. Dave wanted to laugh, but wasn't sure if it was polite.

When their waiter, a handsome young local with an easy manner, brought their food to the table, Dave couldn't help but notice the special attention he seemed to be paying Sansa. Clegane had noticed too, it seemed, throwing his arm over her shoulder and pulling her to his side as the waiter approached, quick to answer any questions the young man might have tried directing at his charge, and keeping a warning glare on him whenever he passed through Clegane's field of vision. He couldn't have said if Sansa noticed what was going on, but Dave saw it, and was again hit with a dose of relief that she had him. _He may not be the best-looking guy in the world, but he seems like a __**good**__ one,_ he thought. _The kind of guy I wouldn't mind my daughter getting attached to, if I ever have one._ Maria was still young enough, there was still room in the house for more children. _If I ever get home to see my wife again,_ he thought cynically. This investigation had been sucking his soul for the last few months, though, and likely would continue to for a while yet. _Another reason to get this case over and done with as soon as possible._ He found his vision had come to linger on the Stark girl as he thought, her tired eyes, pale skin, the way she clung to Clegane, surreptitiously but not invisibly, as if he were her only tether to safety. _It's going to suck her soul too, I'll bet, _he thought sadly. _Best get it over and done with, for everybody's sake._

As the meal was wrapping up, Stan and Melissa introduced the plan the taskforce had made to their witnesses: they'd have the rest of the day to rest before hitting the road for Louisiana again tomorrow, where the Elder Brother would put them up in a safe house until their court date in Los Angeles. The taskforce would be down to question them, sure, but he'd have a couple of weeks to get settled before any of that began. As a company they drove to fetch back Clegane's car, stopping to fill it at the Shell station before driving to the dilapidated local Comfort Inn and securing a couple of rooms for those travelling back to Louisiana.

"We need two rooms for the night," Stan had said tersely, withdrawing the company credit card from his wallet. "Preferably that can be moved into as soon as possible."

"And how many people in these rooms, sir?" the concierge had asked.

"Three in one and just one in the other," Stan said.

"I don't want to sleep alone," the Stark girl had chirped, firmly but unobtrusively, causing everyone to snap around and look at her. Even Clegane seemed baffled, raising his one good eyebrow as he looked down at the girl, one of his huge hands perched on her shoulder. "Not after... everything. I'd feel better if I had Sandor with me."

He shrugged, trying to look nonchalant, but pulled the girl closer to his side. "It's fine with me."

"Two in each, then," Stan amended, "and I guess that makes it just one that needs to be available right away."

They'd paid for the rooms in advance and bid the others safe travelling the next day before taking their leave, heading back to Seattle, and from there, DC. There was work to be done in the case, after all, and now that they had Sansa and Sandor safe and up to speed, they could focus on lining up their evidence and getting ready for the trial.

Relatively smooth sailing, it looked like, but all the same:

"I'm cold," Stan insisted, crossing his arms and looking Dave in the eye through the rear-view mirror not ten minutes into the drive back to Seattle.

"I will leave you on the side of the road, Baratheon. Don't think I won't."

"You wouldn't," he growled like a threat, but kept his mouth shut about the temperature all the same.


	18. Chapter 15

**A/N**: Hey guys! Long time no see! I'm sorry this update took me so long, but the things I'm dealing with in this chapter had to be done right—I owe it to them and I owe it to y'all. What you're about to read is the fifth draft of this chapter, the final 8 of a total 32 pages overall written towards this end. I have been working LITERALLY nonstop (with the exception of a minor computer mishap that left me without my power cord for 24 hours, but I digress) to bring you this update, and it, like both of my stories as their wholes, would not be half as good as it is without the keen eye of my GENIUS BETA WHO LETS ME CALL HER AT THE MOST OBSCENE HOURS OF THE MORNING, Mom. So give my Mom some props in the comments, _s'il vous-plait._ She deserves 'em.

And now, without further ado...

::

It was her moaning that woke him, while the late afternoon sun slanted through the curtains in marigold chunks of light, her body twisting restlessly in the dark of the bed they shared. What little of her face he could see from how they lay was screwed up in torment, inflicted by the whispers in her dreaming but no more gentle for it. Another moan escaped her, an insistent sound somewhere on the brink of speech, half-formed and urgent, accompanied by a thrashing of her legs.

_Not the kind of moaning I wanted the little bird to be doing in my bed,_ he thought, only half-amused as he swept a lock of hair from her brow and trailed his fingers down her arm with a heavy sigh. She had seemed honestly terrified by any separation from him since escaping the train, even in the nap they took to quell their exhaustion—eventually asking, blushed pink and polite, if he would be willing to share with her before folding herself up against him, their bodies pressed back-to-back. "It's okay, little bird, he's gone, he can't hurt you now," he murmured presently, offering her comfort though she was surely far beyond it.

Rolling onto his side, he propped himself up on his elbow so he could see her whole face, not quite relinquished from the fog of his sleep but awake enough to be caught in rapt attention to her, as truthfully he had been all day; even in the midst of their napping he was sharply tuned to her, which was why, he assumed, he'd woken now, condemned to watch while she took herself captive in a prison built of her remorse, her captor now her own morality, the righteousness of her soul.

_I wish I could break you free from yourself, little bird,_ he thought, brushing his fingertips over her nose, her jaw, admiring her delicate beauty. She was beached far beyond the reach of his protection now, though; the best he could do was hold her hand and call out to her, keep calling out to her until she made her way back to his shores.

Shock had set in on her immediately once the police had shown up, and she had ridden it all the way through the interrogations and their pancake breakfast, reacting to the world around her with perfectly trimmed manners and grace, though he knew her well enough to see through to her winces, her gritted teeth—the wound her conscience sustained was fresh, stinging undressed in the gentle kiss of the open air, and likely to fester if she kept trying to ignore it like she had all morning. But she had taken the life of a man, and in that moment, all was changed—she could not then be the same girl he knew, after today. He'd seen too many people face what she was facing to claim ignorance of that.

It had come back to him in a flicker and a flash as her axe spilled blood close enough for him to smell it—the underground boxing rings had smelled like that, and after then, the abandoned Baelor Industries warehouse where the Lannisters had their dirty work done. Guys known to him as rivals, co-workers, friends even, had found themselves staring at bodies they broke and blood they spilt, eyes wide as saucers when they saw the barrier they'd erected between themselves and civilized society in decimating a life or taking one. Some of them had been nasty pieces of work to begin with, betraying no signs of remorse even after committing the most appalling acts of cruelty, but others—most cases he could think of, really—were so disturbed in unearthing this reprehensible aspect of their capabilities, their consciences battered and bloodied in the wake of what they'd done, that the knowledge of it sunk their feet in concrete and bound them up in chains.

Their lives were not theirs to lead after that, but rather a series of events that happened _to_ them, dragging them along as life marched onward to the rigid, unstoppable pace of a ticking clock, the humming hiss of calendar weeks dissolving before their tired eyes. They gave up, all of them, stirring in the land of the wakeful with repetitive thoughtlessness—it was easier to fall back into static, apathetic resentment, easier than taking responsibility for their actions and making the effort to be better in the future.

And though he'd made no bodies of his own (he was _effective_, Mr. Lannister insisted, a good dog, loyal, not a throwaway goon like many of his cohorts, too rare a weapon to spend on spilling blood), a guilt had come on him too, the sin of his passivity gnawing away at his conscience little by little until it was putrid, festering, and he found himself chained in his remorse, dragged along by the rushing currents of the life he chose.

In order to escape a similar fate, she needed to find some way to accept what she did, count it among the litany of other horrors in her past and live with it—it had not killed her, after all, and could yet make her stronger, so long as she cleaned her wound and dressed it, tending to it gently so it would not scar her.

_Scar her._ He smirked to himself at his choice of metaphor, thinking of all that scarred _him,_ physically and emotionally, those things that assaulted him with self-loathing and derision in force every time he dared to look at himself in a mirror..._that must be how she feels,_ he thought, an understanding hitting him then like a punch in the stomach he hadn't seen to block—she could no more _look_ at herself right now than he could have in those months right after he burned. Bile hit the back of his throat, so viscerally did he understand, and suddenly the weight of his conviction multiplied; he would _not_ let this shape her the way his own scars had shaped him, he would _not._

"Hmmph, hmmmph, _hmmmmmmn!_" she groaned, curling herself around her knees, her back to him. He took the opportunity to wrap himself around her, pulling her against his chest and into the circle of his arms, trying to tuck her into the understanding he'd just come to.

"Shh, shh. It's okay, little bird, it's okay," he cooed, nestling his face into her hair, whispering in her ear. "It won't always be this hard to face, I promise. It will get easier. Your life will go on, whether you want it to or not—the trick is in leading it, not letting it drag you."

She whimpered in her sleep, wriggling back into his embrace. He tugged her closer, covering her cheek with his fingers, stroking the back of her neck with his thumb. "Shh, shh...you're okay, pretty bird. You'll be okay. I won't let anything happen to you, alright?" he pressed his lips against the soft skin at the juncture of her neck, back and shoulder, sighing over her skin as she finally stilled, a high-pitched whine escaping her. She wound her arms around one of his and hugged it to her chest, tucking her face into his rough palm. _Silly bird,_ he smiled, making no move to remove it.

In that moment, he found it almost impossible to believe that anything would break her, that anything _could_ break her, even this, she looked so well and whole. His wounds had broken him easily, moulded him into a man equal to their horror, chained him and scarred him and dragged him along before he could even put up a fight. His aching conscience, rotten from all the years he neglected it, drove him north to seek her pardon in hopes that she could heal him, setting him free and returning him the reins of his living. He had imagined, when thinking on how he could make amends to her, that she would send him after the Lannisters, fetching back her bodily revenge on command like the good dog he was, and in doing so, bit by bit would he earn her forgiveness, until his life was bearable and his conscience clear—but she had asked no such thing of him. Instead of having him serve as her strength, he stood by in support and watched as she built her own, faithful—even while held tightly in the little fucker's grasp—that she could build up the strength to free herself, and that only in finding that strength could she ensure her permanent freedom.

He was washed then in a sudden warm rush of new affection, respect and awe for her, hitting hard his tender heart and filling it more with her, as if he were not already swimming in his affection outright. Once he had thought defeatism suited her, and yet now she was stronger than he was—and smarter too, knowing inherently that she needed to save herself in order to truly be saved.

Pushing the fingertips of the hand she clutched into her hairline, he rubbed little circles on her scalp, making her sigh in her sleep. Did the same principle apply to him, he wondered? Did he need to save himself, really, in order to really be saved? He swallowed; depending on her to administer his forgiveness kept him from being responsible for the state of his conscience and his bondage, but as he considered it now, that was plainly misaligned—_he_ was responsible for the man he had become in reaction to his scars, the acts he carried out as that man that composed his remorse—shouldn't he, then, be responsible for healing the wounds he inflicted on his own conscience, unchaining himself from the bonds of his apathy and reclaiming his life? Just as she needed to find some way to accept what _she_ had done, he needed to do the same: to look at himself, really look, at the whole of the man he had become, and forgive himself for it.

_Oh god._

_That's it._

_It's been right there in front of me the whole time..._

It was not that his scars dissolved from his face in that moment, but some sublime relief of a kind yet unknown to him bloomed in his chest, and no longer, he knew, would he let his scars drag him along, dictate his experience, act as a proxy through which he filtered the world. He would let himself heal, finally, make peace with himself, find some way to hate himself less for the wretched person he was. Warmth came over him in a flood then, and it seemed that now, if he looked at himself, no longer would he note a broken dog staring back at him, but a man, victor in a war long waged against himself, bearing battle scars, yes, but triumphant and whole.

Though he had yet to come to forgive himself, the path ahead was clearer now, distant end sharp in his sight. He had faith, then, that he _could_ be her guide in this, that he could show her the way to forgiveness and shelter her from harm she could inflict on herself under the weight of her remorse, even if that only meant holding her hand and calling out to her, always calling out to her until she came back to him, to herself, to wherever she wanted to be. It was plain to him then—there could be no separating from her. They walked this path together, each on their own journey towards their own end, each necessary to the other for support, for the love they could give.

_Love,_ he exhaled, squeezing his eyes shut and clutching her closer. _Goddamn, I __**love**__ her._

He swallowed, nuzzling her neck—that was an admission he could face, now that he'd faced everything else: he loved her. He _loved_ her. And maybe, one day, she could love him too.

He surrendered to his observation then, watching over her in his arms. It must have been another hour before she woke, her groaning and eye-rubbing preceded momentarily by a rumble in her stomach. She twisted around, blinking rapidly as she met him face-to-face, staring at him wordlessly for a few moments until he spoke.

"How do you feel?"

"Awful, but better. If that makes any sense."

He gave her a half smile and a nod, "yeah, it does," before pulling her flush against his chest in another embrace. _I'm here,_ it said, _right here. I'm not going anywhere. We'll get you through this. I promise._

They ordered a pizza to quiet their hunger but otherwise filled their evening with very little of anything they had not already been doing, little bird all caught up in her silent reckoning, her hound quietly watching her. There was nothing uncomfortable about it, strange as it sounded, Sansa sitting on the windowsill with her knees pulled up against her chest, Sandor settled in a chair beside her, reaching out to touch her sometimes, gently, to remind her he was there.

"It won't always feel like this," he interjected at one point, rasping. Her eyes snapped to him then, attentive, hanging on his every word. "I know you feel like shit right now, that you hate yourself in a hundred different ways because of what you did, and that nothing I could say is going to change that for you, because you are a _good person_ and you're not going to take this lightly."

"_Am_ I a good person?" she asked, her voice small quivering. He sighed heavily in response.

"Of _course,_ Sansa."

"Even after this?"

"_Especially_ after this," he insisted. "Come here."

She nearly leapt into his lap at his invitation, winding her arms around his neck as he hauled her up against his chest, pressing her into him, letting her take solace in his presence.

"What you did, Sansa," he began lowly, almost whispering into her ear, "was prevent the world from seeing more harm by him. It was selfless, in that respect. Yes, you were saving me, and you were saving yourself, but there's no telling how many others you saved from him too. And _God _girl, that took some strength, and I think you're surprising yourself in having it. I don't think you knew you had it in you."

"I didn't," she admitted in a voice simultaneously small and self-assured. "And I don't think I would have been able to find it if you hadn't shown it to me."

"Hey now, little bird, don't go giving credit where it isn't due..."

"But it is," she insisted, picking up her head off his chest to look at him, searching his eyes with her stunning blue ones for a moment before she knit her brow and said, "and I think you know that. So stop."

"Listen to you, getting stronger and stronger," he said affectionately, giving her a gentle shake in his arms. She blushed, smiling, tucking her face back against his chest. He passed his hand over her shoulders and back, rubbing slow, great circles. "I know where you're coming from right now, little bird," he sighed, "I've been in the same place for a long, long time, and I know how shit it feels." She shifted herself in his lap to sit back and look at him while he spoke, and while nervousness tightened in his chest, he forced himself not to shy away from her eye. "It feels like...like a wound, right? Like a gaping wound, right here?" He showed her, tapping the centre of his abdomen, right below his ribs. Her hand flitted to the same place on her body as she bit her lip and nodded. "Well...it's kind of like, if you leave that wound alone and try to pretend that you don't feel it, it gets infected with all kinds of bad shit, and it changes you." He slipped his arms around her hips loosely, knitting his fingers together along her spine. "I made the mistake of ignoring it. I let it change me, and it turned me into a shittier person than I already was. But hey—look at me," he said, tilting her chin though she was already looking at his face, her eyes meeting his and sending a shock through his throat. _I love her,_ he thought, and had to suppress a dumb smile. "I'm not going to let you make that same mistake, alright? I'm not going to let this change you. We'll get you to a place where you can turn your eyes and look at this thing you did, and then we can talk about forgiving yourself for it, making it a _part_ of you instead of _shaping_ you to the nastiness of it."

Her lashes were wet as she whimpered an "okay" in response.

"Okay," he repeated, sighing, "come here," pulling her towards him, laying her head down on his shoulder and turning his head to watch as the purple-gray dusk surrendered to black.

She shared his bed for sleeping again that night, reaching out to him in her unconscious state and clinging to him, not quite desperately but urgent still. The thin layers of cloth scraps that kept them from expansive contact skin-to-skin were everything and nothing, and while he was not spared the hot-blooded thoughts any man would have pressed against the plush curves of a creature even half as beautiful as she, _the woman I love_, they found no purchase in grabbing at him, stirring his composure. She did not need that sort of attention from him, not now. He laid kisses, as gentle as he could, on her cheeks, her forehead, her nose, her eyelids, her hair, filling his lungs with her scent and tangling his arms around hers, and before he knew it sleep came for him too, gentle and heavy as the Louisiana summer wind.

Rising first, he tried to keep from waking her as he slipped out of the bed and showered, unable to suppress the urge to press a kiss to her forehead upon emerging, dressed and dripping, his good cheek freshly shaved. "Rise and shine, little bird," he rasped, dipping a few tendrils of his cold, wet hair onto her face, making her sputter and squeal.

"You're all wet!" she shrieked, half a groan, eliciting a rough, low chuckle from him.

"Come on now. We've got driving to do. Up."

"I don' wanna," she groaned, pushing her face back into the pillows. "Five more minutes?"

"Nuh-uh, no time to waste. You've got to get up, little bird," he said, shaking his hair onto her neck now, making her squeal again, turning over and pulling the comforter over her head. "Come on, we've already got it backwards. It's supposed to be all the little birds singing in the morning that wakes the hound up, not the other way around."

"Then come back to bed with me. I'll sing to you when I'm ready to get up," she pleaded, muffled from under the blankets. A lump rose in his throat, along with...something else. _She doesn't mean it like that, dog, and even if she did..._

"Come on, bird. Seriously. Do you want me to wait for you before I go to breakfast, or do you want to meet me down there?"

She pulled the covers back just enough to pout at him before sighing in capitulation and sitting up. "You can go ahead. I'll bring my stuff down when I'm ready. I'm not too hungry this morning."

"Okay. You sure?" he asked, rubbing her shoulder, finding it near impossible _not_ to touch her, after their day and night of cleaving to one another.

"Mmm," she affirmed. "I'll see you down there."

"You'd better not go back to sleep," he threatened emptily, tossing his worn clothes into his travel bag and hefting it over his shoulder, standing in the middle of the room to wait and watch as she stood, glaring at him, and closed herself into the bathroom.

When she turned the shower on, he gave the room a quick once-over, left a tip for the maid and made his way down to breakfast.

With a plate piled high with food he dropped down at the table where the Elder Brother had already taken up residence, sipping weak-looking coffee from a white cardboard cup over a limp gray newspaper. Looking up from his reading with that twinkling half-smile of his, the Elder Brother greeted him. "G'mornin', Brother Sandor."

"Morn'n'" he answered, his mouth already full.

"An' how she doin' this bright fine day?"

Sandor swallowed. "Better. She seems to have settled some."

"Mmm," the Elder Brother hummed. "An' yo'self?"

"Relieved," he grunted before inhaling another forkful of food.

"I bet," the Elder Brother said laughingly, folding up his paper and putting it aside, taking up his coffee and sipping it in the brief silence that followed. "It gon' be nice, havin' y' back on the Gran' Isle, Sandor. You be wantin' yo' ol' job back? I tell y', jus' 'cause yo' grave-digger up n' run off after some long-lost love o' his, ain' stoppin' nobody from dyin'. I get this Mexican fella t' come from time t' time, but he ain't up often 'nough 's I need. Flowe' beds 're dyin' too."

"I guess I could be talked into it," he said with the closest thing he had to a warm smile, taking a sip of his own coffee, too hot and too watery. "If Sansa decides she wants something to do, do you think there would be something at the Parish for her?"

"Oh, I'm sure we c'n think o' someth'n'," he said conspiratorially, giving Sandor a little grin. "Will we be gettin' y' back in th' program too, then? 's I recall it, you was only on step nine."

Sandor shrugged. "Don't know. Not really much to the program if you don't believe in God."

The Elder Brother shook his head, a curving smile meant to be a frown on his lips, before he leaned forward and looked him in the eye. "What's step two?"

"Step two?"

"'S what I said. Recite fo' me step two."

Sandor blinked, putting down his fork. "Started to believe that God could restore our sanity."

"Nope. Try 'gain."

"_Came _to believe that God—"

"Nope. I give you a hint. Ain't got nothin' t' do wit' God."

He frowned. "I don't get where you're going with this."

"Step two: came t' believe that a _power greater than o'selves_ could restore us t' sanity. Ain't got nothin' t' do wit' God."

"'A power greater than ourselves'—how is that not referring God?"

"Millions o' ways, brother. Ev'ry way that ain't got nothin' t' do wit' you. That greater power can be th' feelin' o' ocean waves breakin' on yo' feet. A _damn_ good milkshake. O' seein' that girl's pretty face ev'ry day, makin' her smile an' keepin' her safe. I got a feelin' it might be somth'n like that one fo' the likes o' you."

"As much as I love my milkshakes," Sandor rasped with a shy smile. "Other steps, though, make direct references to God. Or praying. I don't pray, Brother, you know that."

"Step 'leven: 'Sought through prayer n' meditation t' improve ou' conscious contact wit' God—_as we understood Him_.'" The Elder Brother paused, giving him another crooked smile, waiting to be sure he had his attention before continuing. "If yo' understandin' o' God, Sandor, is watchin' over that girl, then you been doin' this step already. I seen the way you lookin' at her, watchin' her, guessin' what she gon' need. Thinkin' on her. That's meditation. That's prayer."

_I guess he's got a point,_ Sandor thought to himself, shrugging. _By those standards, then, I'm quite the devout_. "So if I've already done step eleven, then what's step twelve?"

"'Havin' had a spiritual 'wakenin' as th' result o' these steps, we tried t' carry this message t' alcoholics, n' practise these princ'ples in all our affairs.'"

He reflected on the understandings he had come to the night before, the warm relief that had bloomed in his chest as he recognized that he needed to forgive _himself_ in order to heal the way he needed to. Could he call that a 'spiritual awakening'? It certainly seemed like one.

"I think I had my spiritual awakening last night," he admitted, and then added, with a little smirking smile, "while I was thinking about what she needed. Watching her sleep."

"Prayin', as y' like," the Elder Brother said, chuckling warmly like a taunt. "Well then. All y' got left t' do is live th' rest o' yo' life like that, n' do what y' can t' help others 'n need o' it."

"Like her?" Sandor asked hopefully. The Elder Brother smiled.

"She a good place t' start."


	19. Chapter 16

_It's so flat,_ she thought, standing just out of reach of the lapping waves. _It's so blue._

Sansa couldn't remember the last time she saw the ocean quite like this, placid and stretching out endlessly before her. The cool November wind breathed salt into her hair and made her skin sticky with it, having wandered down from the deck on their safe-house to watch the departing sun colour the sky pink and the sea peach. She had the shoreline to herself as far as she saw, and she opened her ears to the quiet of it all, the waves as they broke like sighs of breath.

They had arrived on the island three hours earlier, on their fourth solid day of driving southeast from Washington, pulling up to the modest, stilted, mint-green clapboard house the taskforce had set them up in, just six blocks from the church where Sandor had gotten clean. _For a safe house, it looks pretty rickety,_ she had thought with a frown at the warped wood of the stilts and mint siding, paint peeling back to expose rot-slicked wood, even greener beneath. Ascending creaky stairs up to the front door with a bag of dirty clothes on her shoulder, she trained her eyes on the structure before her and tried to call it_ home. This is home now. _

Some emergency with the plumbing of the house had called their immediate attention upon arrival, sending Sandor and his preacher friend the Elder Brother into the depths of the house in search of the problem and means to fix it, leaving her alone in the creaky old house for the afternoon. Deciding a nap might distract her disconcertion with the place, she wandered around the house from cabinet to cupboard, hunting down anything that looked like bedding with aims to build a nest in the room delegated to her use. She could hear the low rumble of Sandor's voice through the floorboards, mixed with the preacher's Louisiana tenor and the knocks and bangs of their investigation, gentle reminders that she was not alone here after all.

The house was coloured honestly, shrouded in the natural shadow of late-afternoon, its pale blue walls devoid of sconces and dingy popcorn ceiling bereft of fixtures, save a lampless wide-blade fan turning lazy circles in each room in anticipation of the heavy summer heat. And though summer was still two seasons off, all the windows in the house were open anyway, letting the wet ocean breeze sweep its cool fingers through the simple floor plan and making everything a little damp, a little gritty beneath her fingertips. The whole house smelled of salt and dust and suntan lotion, especially the cupboards, wooden shelves exuding fake coconut perfume from years of housing the stuff; some still did, half-empty bottles with gummy yellow residue stopping up the caps in assorted piles on bottom shelves, in the corners of which gathered dustings of old sand. There were dings on the walls, and blooming bruises from water damage, and cobwebs in the corners and yellow rings around the drains, but the longer she spent in the house, taking inventory with hungry fingertips of the breadth of its inadequacy, the easier she found it to pardon the house its imperfections. It was one of the few beachfront houses that had made it through the hurricane, the Elder Brother had informed them, but that had only meant it was quicker and longer on the market afterward, grossly devalued, sitting abandoned these six years since. Collateral damage in America's haste to forget the tragedy, it was, and Sansa could identify with that. She imagined then that she would like to breathe some life into the house again, fix it up like she was fixing herself, starting with whatever the men were seeing to this afternoon, eventually moving onto replacing the sinks or repainting the exterior, reinforcing the stilts beneath it or putting in skylights to brighten the place in the day. She smiled as she slid into bed, imagining Sandor with a paintbrush in hand, or a sanding block, focusing hard on perfecting some detail of the house...

But without Sandor's body to curl against as she had slept every night on the road, sleeping was lost to her, and no pile of coconut-smelling, wash-worn blankets and pillows would bring it forth. It felt good to lie there in the stillness though, the motion of the drive echoing in her bones; the drive itself had been rejuvenating in its own way, but there was something about simple rest that she had yet been missing. Even still, _I wish I had Sandor here,_ she found herself thinking more than once, often with a sigh.

When she grew tired of wishing she browsed the bookshelves, all four of them half-empty and housing a strange assortment of books, yellowing pages buckling after years spent in constant humidity. None caught her fancy, so she turned to study the wood grain of the floorboards, buckled more subtly than the books but noticeably still. She slipped off her socks and felt the uneven seams with the pads of her toes and the balls of her feet, tracing them, mapping them, following them out onto the back porch of the house, the wood beneath her feet worn smooth by salt-sea winds.

She stopped short at the view, the first stationary one she got of the sea, uninterrupted by dunes or buildings or harbours or marshland. No, the only thing between her and the horizon was a broad stripe of textured dark blue, white-ridged where the waves broke, looking for all the world like the very edge of it, though she was educated enough to know better. The waves crashed in a gentle rhythm, a hissing ebb and flow so loud and so quiet she felt herself being pulled apart by the irony of it. Snaking her arms around herself she clung tightly, rocking back and forth on the balls of her feet in time with the waves. Percussion like that—the waves were percussive, she decided—merited a melody in accompaniment, and so she supplied it, quietly at first, before her hips started to sway in time with her feet, before she dropped her shoulders, shuffled forth her toes. _I'm safe,_ she realized, swaying with her eyes trained on the horizon she'd been running towards since she started running in the first place. _I made it, and I'm safe...__**Finally**__, finally safe._ A sigh escaped her, her shoulders dipping left with it, and before long she was twirling on the wood, her body swept up into a dance matching the tune she hummed that bubbled out from the place he'd shown her in her core that wept relief, wounded still, but no longer a wound.

Receiving it—_inflicting_ it, perhaps she should say—was like other wounds in that it hardly stung until she got a good look at it, far more concerned in that moment with Sandor and his safety than the state of her conscience, or indeed the body behind her. As soon as she caught sight of the blood though (in this case, Petyr's) she woke to the pain, crippling for a moment before shock set in heavy, masking her wildly-beating heart with a cool, collected exterior. Between shock and Sandor, she had the support she needed to carry her through the morning, the worst of her guilt coming on her in sleeping, overwhelming and powerful, too close to see clearly. She had surrendered to that pain, letting it toss her around until something eclipsed it, curling around her body, anchoring her someplace safe. She woke with his breath on her neck, clutching one of his arms to her chest, and despite everything unsettling her internally, she had never woken so peacefully.

He showed her where the hurt was later that evening, leaving her wondering, as soon as her fingers landed there, how she had not noticed the spot herself as the wellspring of her pain. It was all she could do not to physically cradle her abdomen after that, but she knew for however physical it felt, taking up space in her chest and _hurting_ her, it was an emotional wound, a wound to her soul, a serious one. She was in a poor position to judge, but she felt as though it would never really heal completely, and knew on some level that she had to be right—at no point in her future would she look back and find suddenly this stain removed; she would always be a woman who had this crime in her past, but maybe, ironically, she could find some way to be a better woman for it. It was a long shot, she figured, but she had her whole life to making it.

And as they put the west behind them predominantly in silence, the cab of Sandor's car second only to the circle of his arms as the safest place she'd ever felt, it started to seem like maybe it wasn't such a long shot after all.

Staring out the window of the car in the gray of the second morning, Sansa spied a small cluster of gravestones beside a red clapboard church.

"Can we pull over?" she asked on a whim, pointing. "I want to go over there."

He leaned over the wheel, looking after her indication before shrugging and pulling onto the shoulder of the road, stopping the car just short of the church driveway.

"Thanks," she said, shrugging his old jacket back onto her shoulders. "I just want to take a look."

"Go on ahead," he rasped, watching her with a ghost of a smile twitching on his lips. "I'll be right here."

Zipping the jacket all the way to her chin, she tucked the lower half of her face into the knit collar as she wandered down the gravel driveway and out among the monuments sprouting from the dead brown grass, a thin sheen of hoarfrost veiling the whole world in white, piece by piece. Many of the names on the tombstones were the same, she noticed: Smiths, Browns and Jacksons. One girl caught her attention particularly, one Mary Bennett Jackson, wife-mother-sister, 1879-1898. _My age,_ she thought, crouching to trail her fingers over the solid grainy face of the stone. The other stones gathered around her were presumably her family, but Sansa had eyes only for Mary's, plain and unornamented, shooting up slightly askew out of the ground.

Nineteen years the woman had lived, only nineteen—did she look back at the end of those nineteen short years and judge her life fully lived? It was her disposition to hope so...and yet, there were other ways that phrase could be construed, weren't there? _Fully_ lived...Sansa's own nineteen years were full indeed, but of what? Her first seventeen spent in the comfort of her sheltered innocence were full of waiting; waiting for life like on a silver screen to happen to her, waiting for adulthood to grace her with the independence she needed to live a life like dreaming, like the movies. But then in the two years following, life dawned on her, blinding in its brightness, and once her eyes adjusted she found herself in the sordid real world, gathering experience in it like little trophies, black and blue.

Her greatest take-away from her time in L.A.—she had to wonder if Mary Bennett Jackson knew this truth after _her_ nineteen years—was a visceral understanding of the nature of independence: independence meant the freedom to stay with a monstrous boy who had his body guards beat her up, meant the liberty to pine for his mother's approval over her own, meant the opportunity to give into pressures others put on her to give up her family, her fortune, her name, give up and up and up—all this freedom, this independence, without the guidance of any one soul.

A shiver wracked her—not from the cold—and a salty pressure built behind her eyes. She swallowed once, twice thrice, but could not choke out the bitterness welling up in her. _Stop,_ she thought to herself, _you can't. Think about what Sandor says._ Bitterness infects the wound, he'd told her, would keep it from healing—but she wanted it to heal, she _did_; it was the next-best thing to travelling back in time and undoing what she'd done (or maybe, she'd let herself think years later, it was one better). She pulled her hand to the place, the empty pit in her stomach under her ribs, and curled her fingers into it, pressing, kneading as if to dig out the pain.

_You have Sandor's guidance now,_ she reminded herself. _And thank God—otherwise where would you be?_ Much worse off, she imagined, living still under the press of Petyr's thumb, deluded into thinking _that_ was true liberty, true sovereignty of her soul. She'd been so relieved to slip into the persona of Alayne, as resistant to the idea as she had initially been—thought that being Alayne meant finally being grown-up, leaving behind all the childish innocence of her life as Sansa and the vulnerability that had come with it, but really Alayne had been no smarter, falling into the same pattern of submission to Petyr that she'd survived on with Joffrey. No, it had not been due to Alayne that she had eventually come to her senses, seeing the toxic situation she was in and escaping from it—that inspiration she had to chalk up to Sandor. Sandor, who had once been the most terrifying of Joff's gang, the only person in that snake-pit of a city, and indeed her whole adult life who cared to offer her guidance, albeit in his crass, terse, unfeeling way. Sandor, who had followed her into hiding for whatever reason and continued to give her that guidance, seeing through Petyr's ruse without even having to _see Petyr._ Sandor, who filled her with such a tumult of feelings that she'd only just started to make sense of them before one swing of an axe turned her whole world upside-down, feelings that had only gotten louder, more complicated since she'd run off that train and into his waiting arms, arms she'd _slept _in, for God's sake...

It had seemed so basic, such a necessity, the closeness they'd shared the past couple of days, and yet when she considered it abstractly, pacing among frost-crusted monuments to some faceless dead, it sent flutters through her tummy. _Flutters._ Her body felt lighter, thinking of him, than it had in what felt like a lifetime...But for as solid as this _thing_ was they had between them (it was not enough to call it a friendship, and yet it was technically no more) she did not want to wreck it with any unreciprocated allusions to romance, not when their easy intimacy was so basic to her present survival. If she came to know, without a shadow of a doubt, that he had feelings for her, she would not hesitate in revealing her own, but until then she would keep it as her only secret from him—and as strange as it seemed, keeping it to herself felt like a demonstration of this new sovereignty over her destiny, sovereignty she never would have known if not for him.

She stood, her knees cracking in the cold, and took a few more paces around the burial ground before turning back towards the road. An idea seized her as she returned to him—another demonstration of her sovereignty, she imagined—watching his face contort with confusion as she walked around the hood of the car and opened his door with a grin playing on her lips.

"Wanna let me drive?" she asked, giving him a coy smile.

He leaned back, eyeing her warily for a moment. "You know how I feel about this car," he stated, gravely serious.

"I know," she chirped, unmoving from her position in the doorway of his car.

After another long moment of regarding her he nodded, assenting, and slid past her out of the driver's seat, pacing around the hood as she hopped up into it, scooting close to the pedals and adjusting the mirrors to her vantage.

"You're the first person other than me to drive this car," he grunted, shoving his own seat back as far as it would go and stretching his legs out. "Know that."

"I hope I'm worthy of the honour," she said with a nervous laugh. He grumbled something unintelligible and disdainful as she concentrated on pulling back into the flow of traffic, but when she looked over at him a not a minute later, he was fast asleep.

_Coming from him, if that's not love then I don't know what is,_ she thought to herself, snickering. She'd be keeping her mouth shut, though, she told herself firmly, at least until she was better. Her fingers ghosted over her wound, skin smooth and unbroken beneath her tee-shirt, her conscience still weeping and raw. She tried not to fret about it, worried over unthinkingly trying to read him when she ought to be focusing on herself. Several times throughout the rest of their trip she'd had to bite her tongue to keep the words of a confession down, with his eyes so soft and attentive on hers, or his hand on her waist, his breath on her neck, his warmth, his _warmth._..

"Is it springtime already?" his voice came rasping from behind her, and she jumped, wrenched from her reverie, spinning find him lounging in the sliding doorway out to the deck, watching her with amusement. "I heard a little bird singing. Thought it must be springtime."

"It's springtime for me," she said, speaking before the truth of her words could dawn on her. He gave her a grin and opened his arms, beckoning her into them and kissing the crown of her head. She bit the inside of her cheek and took what she was offered.

"See?" he whispered, "I told you it wouldn't always feel so bad."

"I know. I believed you."

He hummed in response, cradling her for a moment longer before they slipped from the embrace, speaking over each other in attempts to break the silence.

"How's the heating coming?"

"How was your nap?"

She laughed, looking down at her bare toes on the salt-white wood. "I didn't get to sleep, but it still felt nice."

"Didn't keep you up, did we?"

_Only because you weren't napping with me._ "Oh no. Nothing like that."

He frowned before answering her question. "We figured out the problem—this one little bit on the water heater's rusted out—and we've got to go to the hardware store on the mainland to get a replacement piece. Might take a while; I was just checking to see if you wanted to come with us."

She pressed her lips together. "I'm tired of being in the car, I think."

"Fair enough," he laughed before turning serious. "You'll feel safe here, on your own?"

A grin broke on her face, mirroring the relief washing over her core. She turned, looking out at the blank horizon before her, open and sequestered at the same time. "Yeah, I will."

She stayed out on the deck even after Sandor had gone back into the house, and some minutes later, left it in his rumbling car, transfixed by the repetitive and constant motion of the sea. As the tide crept out inch by inch it beckoned her to follow, down the rickety steps, storm-and-careworn like her own bones, over the blond ridge of the dunes and out onto the hard-packed sand, cool and smooth beneath her feet. The swelling sun met her there on the edge of the world, dipping below the cloud cover to settle in the beyond, illuminating the thick white ceiling vermillion and lilac, rhythmic sea below it reflecting darker shades of those same hues, cresting gold and glittering where the two would meet.

She inched forward until just the most ambitious waves kissed her toes as they rolled in, frigid but gentle, soothing and clean. Gales of ocean wind prickled her skin but were not so discomforting as to push her back inside; instead, she folded her arms across her chest for warmth, letting the wind whip and tangle her hair. She was determined to enjoy this sweet moment of solitude, done with running and hiding, done with fear and submission. Greedy, she gulped the sea air into her lungs, wondering if maybe, _maybe_, if she swallowed it fast enough, the sea air would swallow her back. She could have stayed in that moment forever, breathing, eyes washed in colour, listening to the sea. But time moves forward, always, and sometimes it brings gifts sweeter than moments past could ever divulge.

"Little bird..."

She was not startled this time, but she had not known he was there, not consciously, anyway. He stood at the top of the dunes, as close as he could get to the shore without breaching it, his posture hesitant, unsure; he gripped a heavy brown paper bag in one hand, a beach towel she recognized from the cupboards in the house folded over his arm. Even as far off as he stood, she could read on his face that he would come no further if she did not ask him to. The beach was her space in that moment, and he seemed to be worried he was intruding. He wasn't.

Smiling at him over her shoulder, she held out her hand and he jogged to catch it, hurrying off the dunes and laying his things down on the flat of the beach. She turned her attention back to the sea and sky, waiting.

"I decided I was tired of being in the car too," he explained, drawing up to her, his warm palm covering hers without dominating it or taking it over. "Thought you might be hungry—I brought us some dinner," he continued, nervousness in his voice. She glanced up at him, smiling, and knit their fingers together, watching the tension in his eyes dissolve before she leaned her head back against his shoulder and sighed, eyes back on the sky.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" he rasped after a minute or two.

"It's incredible. I don't know how you ever managed to leave it."

He chuckled, a low rumbling in his chest that made her want to curl into it. He let go of her hand to slip it around her waist, nudging her closer to him. "I had more important things to see to," he said assuredly, his other hand coming up to brush a thumb across her cheek. "More beautiful things, too," he whispered.

Something about the smile she gave him didn't feel like it was enough. _Tell him,_ she urged herself, biting her cheek. _Not yet,_ she countered, the time was not right. She didn't know how, but she knew.

"What'd you get for dinner?" she asked, breaking the moment when the cord of their gaze grew white-hot.

"Sandwiches," he answered, sweeping a hand down her arm. "We can eat them out here, if you want."

They trudged back to where he'd set the things on the beach, spread out the towel and settled themselves atop it. Sandor looked like he didn't know how to sit on the ground, his legs sprawled out front of him as Sansa tucked her feet up under herself, her knees together like her mother taught her. He handed her a sandwich wrapped in white paper and set two down by his side, pulling out two bags of chips and two white styrofoam cups, one lidded in pink, the other in brown. "I got you your own milkshake this time, because you're a notorious milkshake thief," he snarled good-naturedly, giving her a coy smile as he snatched up the brown lidded one and took a long pull off of it. She giggled, dragging the pink one to sit by her knee, plucking up the green bag of chips intended for her, leaving the black bag for him.

"But sharing is caring, Sandor," she teased, popping open the bag and leaning it against her legs before picking the sandwich wrapping apart.

"Oh yeah?" he rasped. "Give me a chip, then."

She pouted. "But that's different!" He blinked at her slowly, folding his arms across his chest and opening his mouth, waiting to be fed. "That's not fair! I don't like your kind!"

"_Sharing is caring_, Sansa."

Slumping in mock-defeat, she dipped her fingers into the bag and withdrew a chip, leaning forward to delicately slip it into his mouth, his lips closing around her fingertips, making sure his eyes were watching her with playful delight so he wouldn't catch her in time to stop her from snatching his milkshake away from him, taking a big sip around a giggle of triumph.

"Oh, _come on,_" he laughed, reaching out to take it back, winning it easily from her hands shaking with laughter. "You wanna talk about _unfair_..." he grumbled, grinning at her from behind his glare as he put his straw back in his mouth, pretending to sulk.

They remained on the towel long after their dinner was eaten and the sun was set, watching the colour slip from the sky and sea and nursing their milkshakes. _God_ but it was quiet here, so quiet that over the cadence of the waves she could hear the rasp of his breath in his chest from where she leaned against it, settled between his legs to share warmth in the falling night. She supposed she could have been thinking about other things, but she wasn't—she was thinking about him again, testing the perimeters of her feelings for him and finding them boundless. She tipped her head back, back until his face floated into view, his eyes narrowed as he watched the light mute in the sky. _To hell with waiting,_ she thought, teeth ready to bite back the words, _it's in my power to tell him and I'm gonna use it._

"Sandor, I want to say something," she started, speaking half to keep herself from backing out of her confession. He snapped to attention and sat up to bring his arms around her, cradling her, clouding her already foggy and frantic mind. _Shit. What do I __**say**__?_ A hundred things came to mind all at once, but she was not about to pour all of them out in some lengthy, stupid speech. But what statement could she make with brevity that would explain to him how she felt? Words were so inadequate, she thought, staring into the storm-gray of his eyes, shaking her head, worrying her lip. "I don't know how to say it," she admitted finally, a shy laugh toning her voice.

"It's okay," he rasped, reaching out and combing his fingers through her sea-twisted hair. "I think I already know."

There must have been some fraction of time between that moment and the next, but she was not privy to it, because then he was kissing her, a supplicating press of lips, soft yet quivering electric in the weight of its implication. One hand cradled the back of her neck, fingers twined in her hair; the other held her waist against him, all supportive, not pushing her or crushing her as he held her to his chest.

It was surreal at first, then paralyzing—all this time, and it was so _easy_—and then she gave a whimpering moan, sliding her hands up behind his neck and knitting them together, hauling herself closer to his face so the kiss could deepen. He groaned, hand falling from her neck to help hold her steady as they pushed into the kiss, his breath hot against her skin as it came in heavier and heavier gasps. She twisted until she faced him in his lap, having to break the kiss for a moment to fold her leg over him, an opportunity he took to swear.

"Fucking hell, pretty bird. No one's ever kissed me back before."

She furrowed her brow at him, cupping his face between her hands, thumbing his bottom lip thoughtfully. "No one?"

"No one."

"You've never been kissed before?"

"Not like that."

She frowned. "Sandor…I don't know what to say…"

"You don't have to say anything," he whispered, pushing his fingers back into her hair. "Just…don't stop?"

She came back at him with a vengeance then, pulling his face back to her from where she held his cheeks, scarred skin slick and tough, unscarred soft and rough. His tongue traced the seam of her lips, an experimental flick, and she parted them and went after him, seeking his tongue with her own. Minutes dissolved under their exploration, their energy rising and falling, until the sky was lit only by the stars and a slivered moon, and Sansa found herself settled in the warmth of his arms.

"Can I ask you something, Sansa?" he asked, nosing her hair out of the way to place a kiss on her temple.

"Of course."

"Will you tell me what you were going to say earlier?" he whispered, sounding self-conscious, unsure. "I think I know what it was, but…" she sat up, fixing him with the softest, most benevolent look she could—never had she seen him so sheepish, so shy. "I want to hear it, if that's okay."

"Oh, God," she started, laughing nervously. "There was so much. I didn't want to give you a speech."

"I'm okay with a speech," he said quickly, sounding more hopeful than he probably wanted to. "I mean…if you want."

She broke into a smile and caressed his cheek, his _scarred_ cheek, echoing a gesture from another scene in another lifetime. "I was going to tell you that I have feelings for you," she whispered, only the shaking in her voice betraying what little nervousness she felt in speaking such things, making them truths. "That I want to be with you. In every way possible, for the foreseeable future and afterward." He closed his eyes then, swallowing hard and gripping her elbow, but she kept going. "I was going to tell you that I trust you with me, that I know you respect me and that I value that about you. I was going to tell you that I couldn't imagine anyone else being half the man for me that you could be, after all we've been through…the man that you _are_ for me, after all we're _going_ through, still…" he opened his puppy-dog eyes again, hanging on her every word in a way that wrenched her whole body with something sweet, so close to pain. "I was going to let you argue with me, tell me that you're no good, that you're scarred and coarse and rude and anything else you could come up with before I refuted every single thing you said, completely, and forbade you from ever saying those things in front of me again. Because they're trivial and stupid and so far from true and _you,_" she shook him a little for emphasis, "you are the best thing that has ever happened to me, for my safety and my self-respect. I don't want to imagine where I would be right now if it wasn't for you, because I'd be dead or worse." She closed her eyes, folding her arms around his neck and leaned her forehead on his. "I love you, Sandor."

"Little bird…" he whimpered, nudging his nose against hers. Silence stretched between them for a moment, the only sounds their mingled breathing and the sea's. "Will you promise me something right now?"

"What?"

"Don't let me fuck this up. Because I don't know what I'm doing. I'll try my very best, better than my best, you know I will, but—"

"Shh, shh," she said, cupping his face again, retracing his bottom lip with her thumb, smooth side to scarred. "I won't let you. I promise." He sighed, visibly relieved as he pulled her close again.

"Okay," he breathed.

"Okay."

"…Sansa?"

"Yeah, Sandor?"

"I love you too."

"I know," she nodded, leaning in to kiss him.

And grinning against her mouth, he kissed her back.

::

A/N: Sorry this one took me so long again! This is the final "chapter" as it were, but I'll post a short epilogue sometime soon (as in this weekend hopefully if I don't get eaten by monsters). PLEASE don't forget to leave a review if you're reading! It's the only real incentive I get for writing this, so please…if you'd be so kind…


	20. Epilogue

A/N: This is it! Please, please, please, please, PLEASE don't forget to leave a review! KASHICANHAZ ALL THE FLUFF?!

::

THREE AND A HALF YEARS LATER

Only her nose peeked out from under her tumble of hair, red again, as she slept against his chest. He ran his fingers through it thoughtfully as he silenced his alarm, hoping it hadn't roused her; she wouldn't wake for another couple of hours, at least. He'd be back home by then, making some vain attempt at cooking her breakfast again, the Saturday morning AA meeting he was responsible for proctoring over and done with. She might sleep longer, he thought; they'd pointedly exhausted one another the night before, their first night together in nearly two weeks, since midterms had robbed them of the weekend past. But now she was on spring break, and he was absurdly happy to have her back again. _I should have gotten someone to swap this morning,_ he thought, cursing himself for having to steal away from her (even if only for a couple of hours) when he'd only just gotten her back.

But he consoled himself in knowing she didn't feel his absence quite as he felt it, asleep as she was. He gave her scalp a light scratching before attempting to lift her gingerly from his chest, but her arms tightened around him and she rubbed her face against his chest, whimpering something unintelligible.

"What was that, pretty bird?" he rasped, voice rough from disuse.

"Skip," she seemed to be insisting. "Stay."

"Would that I could, little bird. Would that I could."

She groaned, rolling off him a moment later and snatching the pillow out from under him to take the place of his chest. Chuckling, he sat up and pressed a lingering kiss on the crown of her head before sliding off the bed. "I'll be back before you get up."

She groaned again, somehow throwing the hair mostly away from her face. "...better be," and she collapsed back under the comforter.

_Their_ comforter.

On _their_ bed.

He shook his head, still occasionally struck dumb by his good fortune, and slipped into the bathroom to shave.

During the summertime, when she would accompany him to the parish, he liked to walk the six blocks, more than content to hold her hand and stroll through the seaside streets in the bright yellow sun of the early morning, but if he was alone he drove, coaxing Stranger into the same cracked parking lot he found him in when he first took off for Montana to chase after his little bird. The modest church was the same as it had always been, the smell of fresh coffee mixing with the underlying stench of bleach in a way that might have been unsettling if it hadn't been so familiar to him. He had a good twenty minutes before the meeting was due to start and he needed a cup of coffee (though the stuff Sansa kept at home was better, it felt wrong to drink it without her). The Elder Brother was within, making a fresh pot.

"Well, G'mornin' Brother Sandor! I have t' say, I's half-expectin' you t' stay home this mornin'," he greeted him with a sly grin, fetching another mismatched coffee cup down from the cupboard.

"I wanted to. She asked me to," he admitted, smiling to himself. "But I didn't get anyone to swap with me, so here I am. It's _so_ good to have her back, though. That was a rough couple of weeks."

"I know. I had t' watch y' suffer on through 'em," the Elder Brother smirked, pouring Sandor his mug of coffee and handing it to him.

"Was I really that bad?"

The Elder Brother just crooked an eyebrow at him in response.

"Only two months left, though. Two months and then she's done."

"Don' she wanna go t' law school, I thought?" He asked, pouring the steaming coffee into the cups and handing the bigger one to Sandor.

"Soon," Sandor confirmed, "she wants to take some time off though, time for herself. Do a little work, study for the LSATs. I think she was dropping hints about a trip to Ireland when she gets her trust money."

The Elder Brother shrugged. "That th' only thing she droppin' hints 'bout?"

A jolt went through Sandor's chest, thinking of the little black and turquoise box he had hidden in his closet, ready for her when she asked. "So far," he rasped, the words almost sticking in his throat.

The older man gave a warm chuckle. "You a mo' patient man than I ever was."

Sandor certainly didn't _feel_ patient, but he could understand how he appeared that way. He had been living with her more or less for going on three-and-a-half years now, the first spent in total, blissful cohabitation before she stole off to Loyola University in New Orleans, two hours northeast from the Grand Isle. It had been an _adjustment_ to say the least that first semester, having to go between Monday mornings and Friday afternoons before seeing one another again when she would come home for the weekend, busting through the front door at quarter-to-six, both of them starved for one another's touch. Some semesters they'd gotten lucky with her schedule, graced with extra night a week she could sneak back home, back into their bed, back to him. Those had been sweet months, almost as sweet as the summers when their days belonged to each other, fixing the beach house in what ways they could, fixing themselves under each other's thoughtful guidance and support, spending near as much time in bed as they did out of it...but each summer ended, giving way to a new semester, a bigger hole in his life where she was supposed to be.

But Sandor could afford his patience—in the three years he'd spent with her he had discovered that forgiveness was a grace he had to gift himself with daily, sometimes more than once, and between his self-forgiveness and the little bird's love, he found himself in a profound state of peace. The future was always elusive and uncertain, but these things that mattered to him, that gave him his peace, were sure as sunrise.

Her peace was yet in fully coming, but they had been making steady progress towards it since the little fucker's blood had flaked dry off her hands. Secretly he was almost glad for what had happened, because while he hated that she would bear the burden her remorse would always be, there was more in her past than one righteous crime threatening to scar her soul and bind her will with terror. It was only due to the gravity of what she'd done that she made such an effort to accept it, heeding his warnings of what would happen to her if she didn't, and in her attempts at accepting what she'd done to Baelish, she got around to accepting the other things in her past that made her life a nightmare. Had things happened differently she might have slipped completely under the construction of Alayne, walking sleepingly through her life on Baelish's leash, her real captors working in the living warmth of her soul, but now, as she had cut the little fucker out of her life, she was cutting out her other captors too.

It started with the trial of Baratheon Power and the Ironthrone Conglomerate, just six months after they had moved into the beach house. The taskforce had kept up with them via Skype, occasionally flying them out to D.C. for proper meetings to prepare them for their testimonies. She hadn't had to tell him how much she was dreading the trial—he could practically smell it on her, the way she would lapse into a nervous quiet whenever she was reminded of it. She had tried to distract herself with the details of it all, shopping around for new clothes to wear for court, working with a hairstylist in New Orleans to get her hair back to her signature shade of red, spending hours in the bathroom grooming herself with face masks and nail polish and god-knows-what else, whispering the words of her testimony over and over under her breath like she was trying to void them of their meaning. Sometimes he would interrupt her, ignoring the stink of acetone in the small space of the bathroom to nudge her hair away from her shoulder and pepper her skin with little kisses, holding her close.

"You're going to do great, you know. Dave and Melissa made sure we know what we're doing, and you're not the one who's known for fucking things up anyway," he murmured into her neck once, as dusk darkened the room in soft blue shadow. She sighed rigidly, leaning her head against his shoulder.

"That's not what I'm worried about. I just..." she twisted around on the sink so she faced him, throwing her arms loosely around his neck, her feet swinging by his knees. "I've got to prove to Cersei that she didn't break me. I ran away from her, and running looks weak. I have to look strong."

He leaned his forehead on hers, placing a soft kiss on her lips. "You will, Sansa. You're so much stronger than you think you are."

"I hope so," she said into his kiss, winding her legs around his waist, holding tighter his neck. He slipped his hands under her thighs and picked her up off the sink.

"You _are_," he whispered in a tone that brooked no argument, carrying her back into their bedroom and taking care to make her forget all about the coming trial until morning broke again.

When the court date neared they flew direct from New Orleans to L.A., her perfect manicure digging into the meat of his hand in the force she clutched it with. He knew well what those nails were capable of, often enough taking a dip into the ocean only to surface and find his back stinging angrily where she'd marked it, and not for the reasons she was marking his hand then. Her manner in all else was carefully guarded, posture perfect, each expression schooled, chirping those courtesies he had once mocked her for right and left, not because her wits had abandoned her as he had once assumed, but as a means of defending herself. It was better to be polite and cold than obviously terrified, he figured—she saved her terror for their hands, clutching him tight as they walked off the plane, into the hotel, through dinner and breakfast and to court the next morning, releasing him only briefly while she emptied her stomach right before she testified, her fingers frozen and damp when he took them up again.

"Go get 'em, little bird," he whispered as she stood to take her oath, giving her hand one last squeeze before she departed. And he thought—but might have imagined it—that she gave him a smile before she turned, flipping her hair over her shoulder, and strode forward in an impossibly even, confident gait, despite the absurd height of the heels she wore.

He took a selfish moment to admire her as she walked, watching the slender, gentle curves of her calves and ankles, their contours familiar to him but thrilling still, kissed petal-pink by the Louisiana sun. The dress she wore was pink too, somehow modest and sexy at the same time, slim-fitting with a high neckline, hem hitting her knees. He didn't know how to describe it really, the way her makeup and jewellery and hair blended and put off an air of cool, collected strength and enviable femininity. As she flicked her gaze over Cersei Lannister-Baratheon he followed the course of her eyes, the ageing beauty queen wrapped in some tawny fur stole even in the heat of that Southern California June, hiding eyes that had to be green with envy behind a pair of wide black sunglasses, because Sansa was more beautiful in that moment than he'd ever seen her before. And she was his. All fucking his.

Some strength must have possessed her then, the shade of her sister perhaps, as she gave the older woman a ghost of a smile like a threat, flipping her hair back over her shoulder as she sat, casting her eyes back to him. He gave her a wink and a nod of encouragement, and Sansa, _his_ little bird, broke into a smile in earnest.

Months later, after Sansa had started school, the Elder Brother turned up on the porch one morning with news from the trial. Their Monday morning ritual was already in full swing, Sansa sitting at the breakfast bar with her nose in a textbook, stylishly clothed in tight-fitting jeans and the shirt he'd tried to wear to bed the night before, while he stood at the stove trying to make them something like breakfast, his pancakes misshapen, but the bacon and eggs accomplished well enough. The Brother knocked on the window, earning waves from both of them before he let himself in, humming at the smell on the air.

"When you done bein' a grave-digga' you could have yo'self a job as a line-cook, brother Sandor!"

"I wouldn't speak so soon, Brother."

"Why don' we ask th' lady? Sansa, whachoo think o' Sandor's cookin'?"

Having just taken a bite of food, the little bird sat up straight, squared her shoulders, flipped her hair back and covered her mouth while she chewed, eventually peeping, "he can cook _breakfast_."

"Jus' breakfast?" the Elder Brother asked. Sandor chuckled to himself, tucking the spatula under another amoeba-shaped pancake to check if it was done.

"He's allowed to grill too, I guess," she giggled.

"Hey, now, I'll have you both know that I make a mean can of Chef Boyardee," he said, dropping the fresh pancake onto Sansa's plate. "You want any, Brother?"

"If it th' only meal y' can cook, I guess I give it a try," the Elder Brother affirmed, sliding onto a stool at the breakfast bar as Sansa closed her textbook.

"Coffee?" She asked him.

"If you be so kind."

Sandor opened the cupboard overhead and fetched a mug to Sansa's waiting hand. "Cream?" she asked over her shoulder, "sugar?"

"Jus' cream, m'dear."

"As lovely as it is to see you, Brother, what brings you here this fine morning?" She asked, sliding the cup over the bar in front of him before dancing back up to her seat.

"I glad you aksed. Melissa jus' called t' tell me th' jury reached their decision, they comin' t' deliver it t' court in 'bout 'n hour o' so. Y' might wanna play hookie today, m'dear. We be hearin' about them findin's soon enough."

"Whoa. So soon?" Sansa said after a moment. Sandor could hear the guarded quality of her voice, the care she took to make it sound the way it did. He turned, looking over his shoulder at the little bird's expression, careful also, and blank. "I thought the proceedings just finished at the end of last week."

"Well 'f it was me on that jury, wouldn' take me very long t' come t' _my_ decision, either." He took a sip. "Mm, now _that's_ a cup o' coffee. You get yo' grounds on th' mainland, d'you, darlin'?"

The tension in Sansa seemed to melt as the subject changed to her coffee, something she was proud of and put a lot of thought into. His little bird, raised to have the most exquisite taste, could easily tell the difference between something _fine_ and something _expensive,_ and while those qualities seemed to be as often exclusive as not, she had a surprising talent for finding hidden gems, _fine_ things that fit their budget.

Once the Elder Brother's plate and cup were empty he left, promising to call them when the news came in, always seeming to sense when Sansa needed Sandor's support instead of his own. She slid down from her barstool, bringing the empty plates to the sink as Sandor ate his own breakfast next to it. He put a hand on the small of her back as she rinsed the plates for the dishwasher, rubbing reassuring circles with his fingertips.

"Almost over, little bird. There's only one decision they could make with all the evidence stacked against them," he hummed after a moment. She sighed, setting the plates down and closing her eyes as he continued to stroke her back, watching as she let her guard down, hanging her head and biting her lip.

"There'd better be," she snarled, sounding almost like him as she tucked her head into his chest. "I just want this to _go away._"

He twisted, leaning against the counter, and took her waist to pull her into a loose embrace, drawing back so he could look at her face. "You know it isn't going to go away, little bird. It'll always be a part of you. What you want to _go away_ is that stupid feeling you have in your gut that you can't _handle_ it," he took her chin in his fingers, tilting her face up to his. "I saw you smile at Cersei right before your testimony. You are the victor here, Sansa, no matter how this pans out. Even if somehow she walks, _she didn't beat you._ You made it out. You're happy now. You won."

"I won," she repeated reverently, listening to the words in her voice. "Yeah, okay. Okay," she swallowed, snaking her arms around his chest.

Once the news was in—guilty on all counts that mattered—he kept his eyes on her, watching her try to keep her posture straight as relief wracked her in waves. What money Cersei and company would be left with wouldn't be enough to cover appeals, and her cirrhosis of the liver wasn't going to get her anything more than being cuffed to the hospital bed she would die in.

"I think a swim would be nice," she announced, a non-sequitur after a moment of silence, standing and drifting off towards the bedroom. "You coming?"

He followed her in lieu of answering, stopping her before she could start to change by taking her chin in his hand. "You alright, little bird?"

She gave a wan smile, laying her fingertips on his chest. "Of course," she choked, "I won."

And as he watched her dive under the water, swimming out far beyond where she could stand even in the nadir of the waves, the smiles that broke on her face made her look like she believed it.

A relieved near-peace descended on her after that; she had conquered the greatest sources of turmoil in her life, yet she was not immune to the innate apprehension in facing the responsibility of her own future. Though she would never have to face anything half so disquieting as what she had already laboured to accept about herself, it did not negate the stresses she now knew—having to learn to manage all her family's assets and then some, passed to her after those involved in the extensive Ironthrone Scam (as it was now known) had been found guilty, on top of the basic stress of going to college, getting degrees, aspiring to careers. His job was to support her—a job he did happily, mind—not to add to that stress. And what could be more stressful than proposing a change to their dependable and stable relationship?

_Well, it probably wouldn't stress her out if she__** wanted**__ it..._But what if she didn't? What if he asked, and she said no? He'd ruin everything, then. Sandor knew when things were too good for him, and Sansa Stark was _definitely _too good, yet she stayed with him, year after year, and even seemed _happy_ about it. More than happy.

And he really did love her—more than anything, he did. There was no one else on earth for him; he knew it as well as he knew his own name, but how could she feel the same way about _him_? He believed she loved him, sure—very, very much, but her radiance, her vibrancy, the goodness of her soul all were boundless, heavenly. How could there not be a fairer match for her than him?

She had chosen him though, that much was clear; he didn't understand her choice, but knew better than to look it in the mouth—he had always taken what she had given him, even (_especially_) when it was more than he deserved, and though he knew he didn't deserve her, every day he made the effort to rise to the occasion. _Maybe today, I'll be good enough._ He was never satisfied with his preformances, but (when he was being kind to himself) he allowed that _she_ might be.

As a rule Sandor Clegane did not believe in marriage, but if Sansa ever revealed that she wanted to be married (to him or anyone) why, he'd marry her so fast she wouldn't know what had hit her. With his scars and attitude, "married" was not something he ever thought he would be, but like all good things in the world that he had forgotten, Sansa brought back that dream, that expectation from early childhood, remembering mock-ceremonies with his "girlfriend" on the kindergarten playground, before. Sansa made him forget that he was a scarred old dog, made him feel handsome, and good, and...and fucking _worth_ marrying...

But what if he wasn't; what if he had it all wrong? What if he asked her before she was ready, adding to her stresses? What if she rejected him, like she rejected his offer of protection that night Joffrey burned down the Blackwater? He'd lose her, and, weak as his rational brain knew it was, he couldn't see his life being anything liveable if that ever happened. And plus, there was nothing he was missing by _not_ being married to her—he already lived with her, ate her cooking, shared her bed and kissed her goodnight. There was no foreseeable end to their relationship, and that was good enough for him.

But if she ever _did_ hint at marriage, if she ever made it clear to him that she _wanted_ it, he was ready: stashed on his side of the closet inside his old boxing duffel bag was a box from Tiffany & Co. (she deserved only the best, after all) holding a two-karat diamond on a simple gold band. Classic and fine, just like the girl he hoped would agree to wear it.

_Might even be finished paying for it by the time you grow the balls to give it to her, dog..._

"I'm in no rush," he said to the Elder Brother, "and neither is she. We're not going anywhere, either of us," he blew on his coffee before taking a sip.

"I jus' don' want y'all forgettin' me when y' get t' yo' rushin', whe'ever y'all might be. Ain' nobody got the right t' marry y'all 's much 's I do."

"I can't imagine she would have it any other way, brother," Sandor said, sipping his coffee carefully.

"Damn straight," the Elder Brother barked, letting a beat of silence fall before the two men broke out into laughter.

The AA meeting was pretty standard, no new members, no unusual catastrophes to report. He drank his coffee, listened well and returned home to his little bird, who still had her face tucked into his pillow, though she had dressed herself in his discarded clothes by the time he returned, kicking off his shoes to crawl back into bed with her.

She responded to the mattress sagging under his weight, tossing the pillow behind her and rolling forward to meet him sleepily. "You're back," she observed.

"I told you I would be."

"Doesn't make me any less happy 'bout it."

_Little bird..._

It was just warm enough to go swimming that day, so he took her out, letting her lead him to the breakers and chatting idly as they jumped the waves. Eventually chatting turned to holding, turned to kissing, and when he could take no more he hauled her back onto the beach and into the house, their passion reignited and burning bright; once they simmered down to a smoulder he followed her into the shower and washed her hair, kneeling carefully on the slippery tile when she wanted to return the favour. It was only upon emerging, bathroom clouded thick with steam, that she discovered she had left her good hair dryer back in New Orleans and that Sandor had, in an attempt to clean the house for her arrival, put her spare one away somewhere that didn't make sense.

"Maybe in the closet?" she asked, going up on her tiptoes to move things around on the wire shelves while he knelt to dig through the new storage bin he put under the bed. He only let himself admire her legs, bare under the t-shirt and underwear she wore, for a moment before answering.

"I know it's somewhere, I swear I saw it. I can't believe I don't fucking remember..."

"Don't be too hard on yourself," she chided, giving him a little smile over her shoulder, resting her wrists on the shelf. "I'm sure we'll find it. And if we don't, it was a crappy one anyway, I can just get a new..._shit!_" she swore, pulling on something and bringing a whole pile of his shit down on her.

Including his boxing duffel bag.

Which his idiot self had left _open._

With the motherfucking Tiffany & Co. box on top, all to ready to bounce out and roll right onto her fucking feet.

_Fuck._

"I'm so sorry," she was saying, kneeling to gather the things that had fallen, oblivious to the seismic little box _she was practically fucking sitting on._

"Don't be, just let me handle it," he barked, coming off harsh and angry as he rounded the bed with dangerous speed. She was still apologizing though, digging through the stuff, _too fucking close _to it. How had she not noticed? "Sansa, _move_."

"I'm really sorry, I hope I didn't break anyth—" she whimpered, nearly breaking his heart with how hurt she sounded as she shuffled backward and stood, but he had to _keep her away from it._

"It's okay, just...look under the bed, would you?" He knelt down, sweeping his arms through the pile of stuff she left behind—he felt the familiar leather of his boxing gloves, the heavy fabric of some old hoodies, a pair of shoes..._no box. No box. No—_

He whipped around when he heard her breath hitch.

_Ohfuckohfuckohfuckohfuck..._

She was perched on the edge of their bed, cupping the open box in her hand, wide-eyed and staring, mouth agape. In that moment he was frozen—his heart, his blood, everything—her shocked expression otherwise unreadable, equally frozen.

When she met his eyes he managed a gulp. "Oh my God, _Sandor..._"

_Fuck._

"Is...did you..._**oh**__ my God..._have I ruined everything?"

_Fuck. _"That depends," he choked. "Do you like it?" _What kind of a fucking question is that? Motherfuck. Fuck._

She bit her quivering lip, eyes starting to glisten as she stared at it, the corners of her lips pulling into a smile around her teeth, a laugh escaping her. "Oh my _God..._here, I'm sorry..." she said, tears falling to her cheeks now, smiling as she handed him back the box.

_Fuck no. No no no no no._

But then she said, "I'm sure you wanted to ask me."

The box felt like lead in his hands. His voice cut at his throat, thudding dead in his chest. "Only when I was sure you wanted it, little bird."

She threw back her head and laughed. _Is she laughing at me?_ He'd imagined a million terrible ways this could go, but _never_ in his wildest nightmares had she _laughed_ at him.

But she reached out to cup his scarred cheek, and suddenly her laughter rang benevolent in his ears, her fingers the cool soft marble they'd always been. "I knew I wanted to marry you when you winked at me when I stood up to testify in court," she confessed in a whisper, eyes starting to redden with her tears now. "I just...I mean, we never talked about it...I didn't want to pressure you..."

"_Pressure_ me?" he rasped, pulling her forward to lean his forehead on hers. "Fuck, little bird, you know I'd do anything for you—"

"—You're just so cynical, I didn't think you would ever _want_ to get m—"

"—_you change everything_ for me," he said, shaking her for emphasis. "_Everything._ I didn't believe in marriage before, but because of you, I do. I didn't believe I was worth loving before, but because of you, I do. I didn't believe I could ever be _good_ before, but because of you, _I do._" Running out of words for her, he kissed the girl, wide-eyed and stunned before him, kissed her with all he had, pausing to fumble with the box for a moment before he took her hands in his, fumbling with her left until he broke the kiss hesitantly, feeling her lurch forward, searching for more, whimpering something that sounded suspiciously like "yes" over and over into the space between them. He twisted the band on her finger until the diamond pointed up, and she pulled back, biting her lip again and looking down at it, a fresh wave of tears falling from her eyes.

"Sansa," he breathed, heart kicking in his chest, flooding with happiness so pure he thought himself incapable of it. "Look at me."


End file.
